(This a symbolic tale, historically and mythologically accurate.)
I wasn’t prepared when they came for me. The guards, dragging me along by my upper arms. They told me not to struggle, knowing there would be bruised fingermarks, but I did anyway. The war had gone on for so long we had accepted it as a way of life. I hadn’t thought about the ending; hadn’t considered what might happen if we were to lose.
They kept us sheltered, we got little outside news, and there were constant assurances that things were going well. One day dragged on very much like the one before. So when it finally ended we were all caught by surprise. It seemed sudden and jarring.
When I say “we” I mean myself and the others in the house of women. I suppose you would call it a harem. We belonged to the king. Temple women, sacred prostitutes.
Yes, I said sacred prostitutes.
It may shock you to know that whores were once considered holy women to be revered.
Confused? Sex was an act of Worship. The Goddess is the Land itself. “Mother Earth.” Sex was an act of Worship. You Worship the Goddess by having sex with her. The Priestess is the Goddesses representative on Earth. Sex with a Priestess is Worshipping the Goddess.
A man would go to the temple, find a priestess, “worship” her, then make a donation to the temple. This act of homage was thought to bring him great magickal benefit and blessings. Wealth, Power, Healing, Global Conquest, etc.
The Earth herself would give up her bounty and blessings to him.
Temple prostitutes held considerably high position in society; known for learning and beauty, and were respected as healers, prophets and seers. The Hebrew word “zonah” means both prostitute and prophetess.
Dancing priestesses came to be alled “Hours” (Whores) because they kept the
hours of the night by sacred erotic dances. The Egyptian belly dance is a good example that still survives. The oldest Hebrew folk dance is called Hora after the circle dances of ancient sacred harlots. Christian monks later kept the hours by prayers. What fun.
Temple prostitutes were some of the most educated women in the world; known as the Charities or Graces, for their “kindness” and “soothing influence” on men.
We existed all over the world. The Devadasis of Hindu temples (where the word
“Diva” comes from) The priestesses of Avalon. The Babylonian “Holy Whores,” Egyptian temple-women, The Persian “Houri” and the Greek “Horae.” Kings took over these temples and kept the priestesses as their personal “Harem” girls.
The Empress Theodora, wife of Justinian, began her career as a Temple Harlot.
St. Helena mother of Emperor Constine was a Holy Harlot before she became an Empress-Saint. Olympia, mother of Alexander the Great, was a prostitute priestess of Dyonisias.
My story is no different.
I was a temple harlot when my husband found me.
And now I was Queen.
Did I love my husband? I don’t know. If love is duty, then yes I did. He didn’t particularly stand out to me when I met him. There were princes a plenty around the temple. And assorted men of wealth and privilege. Many were young and strong, future rulers with military backgrounds and sculpted bodies that showed it.
I can’t say I didn’t enjoy keeping them entertained, with dances and sometimes more, should they insist on becoming my person patron and sponsor. Generosity is always an admirable trait. Especially if he has good looks and virility to match.
You might be handsome powerful man, but with a temple girl you’re competing against many other handsome and powerful men. The only way to stand out is by what you’re willing to do in order to acquire her.
And as can be expected, some men get attached to the point of obsession. It can’t be avoided. Occupational hazard. They hang around the temple shooting jealous looks at you, doing their very best to scare away your other patrons.
There are ways of dissuading this behavior. You can hope he finally becomes embarrassed and gives up, hope he finds another girl to pester, or call in a higher authority to run him off.
And then there are those whom can’t be dissuaded because they are the authority.
You always have to be very careful when you take on a powerful sponsor, it can be potentially dangerous depending on the amount of pull he has in the community. If you displease him he could present serious trouble.
My husband was in this class. There is nobody you can call for help if you have trouble with a Prince. I tried to keep out of his sight when ever he was around. Maybe he noticed this and it attracted him. I certainly wasn’t trying to play hard to get.
Royal wives and mistresses have a way of turning up dead. As temple women we were very aware of this. The dragon on who’s back you ride could turn and consume you.
Only the most ambitious of us were willing to play that game.
This is why I cringed when he requested I be sent to him. Not because he was unhandsome or told bad jokes all night, but because of who he was. illegal bahis
I was accustomed to telling my patrons exactly what I though of them, be it positive or negative. I enjoyed playing games of wit. I was sharper than many of them, and it entertained me to corner them in debate, taunt them mercilessly, and watch them squirm. All while maintaining an non-intimidating girlish facade.
Here’s a tip: you can verbally shred a man and get away with it, so long as you say it with a giggle and a teasing smile.
With someone so near to the throne I would be required to pretend I was delighted with his every nuance and shower him with warm smiles.
He was at the top of the food chain. This made him dangerous.
I must have seemed like quite the shrinking violet. Though I was faultlessly polite I know he had to have got the impression that I didn’t want to be anywhere near him. I was not bubbly nor was the conversation sparkling. I was as dull as I knew how to be. Desperate to escape, I was relieved when he finally left.
Imagine my surprise (and dismay) when he asked for me again. And again. And again. I must have presented some sort of challenge to him. He wanted to win me over with his charm or something. I figured this out and plotted my exit. I wanted none of this attention, so I would have to pretend that he had, indeed, won me over. I rehearsed a confession of heartfelt love and devotion: I wanted to get married, have a million of his babies and be together forever and ever.
Challenge completed, he would move to the next girl. Maybe even run!
Well, he didn’t.
He was delighted with me. I would spend the rest of my life trying to keep him delighted, while simultaneously maintaining an arms distance. I tried to inject as much formality into our marriage as possible, for my own safety.
I can’t say I was surprised when he wanted to take me to wife. I had resigned myself to fate. Gods help me, I’m not sure why he wanted me. But he did want me, passionately.
And when he asked I was in no position to refuse. Rejecting him was out of the question. The wrath of a scorned Royal knows no bounds. They are not accustomed to being denied anything. When you love someone right down to your fingernails you can hate them just the same.
I was a good wife. He seemed pleased enough with me anyway. I devoted myself to my family and to my duties. I grew to respect him; and then I grew to love him. He was good looking man, ruggedly handsome and capable. Not unintelligent, he had quick mind for government. He was not wholly out for himself, he seemed to care whether or not he was doing a good job and whether or not the people were happy with his run of the country.
I gave him many beautiful daughters, and one ambitious son. I can’t say I really ever knew my son. He was taken from my arms immediately after he was weaned, and set to training at the arts of politics and war and all the things a leader should know. I wish he hadn’t been so good a student.
My son wanted more. More of what I don’t know. He had an insatiable need for conquest, as if he were trying to fill a void. He would try anything and everything. I kept hearing reports back of drugs, women, and excess. I did not pry in personal matters with other family members. I was content with what my husband and children were comfortable with sharing and never questioned for details. But I knew I had to make an exception. This was my only son, and the future of the nation depended on him. I could not sit comfortably back and hope it was a teenage phase.
I had to go to where he was, and speak with him. I had made up my mind. This was important. I made arrangements, I sent notice. In a few days I was ready; packed and dressed.
I was very upset at this point but decided it would give me time to think of exactly how I wanted to approach the matter and what to say. I rehearsed.
He arrived looking very curious and interested. I, after all, hadn’t seen him in years. What could be so important, he wanted to know. He eyed me strangely in a way that made me uncomfortable. As if he knew things I did not. I gave him my very best speech about duty and honor and responsibility and he was contrite. He approached me as if I was a character. He was very smooth and polite and seemed to know his role as the recalcitrant son. He hung his head and was contrite.
He had not come alone. There were a handful of young men from his troupe he brought along who had begged an introduction. I felt more like a celebrity than a queen. Young men hadn’t fawned over me like that in years. It put a blush to my cheeks.
My visit seemed to have worked. A new fire was lit a in him. He straightened up immediately. I received many glowing reports back that he was pursuing his studies with renewed zeal and vigor. I was quite proud.
I received a lovely letter:
Your visit has inspired me in ways you could never imagine. I now know what it is I most desire. I will not stop until it is mine.
Love, Your Son”
It was the illegal bahis siteleri shock of a lifetime when he challenged his father for the throne. No amount of courtiers could convince him to wait until his time. I wanted to see him, to try and talk sense into him; after all it had worked before but his father refused. I tried sending letters in secret but either they were intercepted or he chose to disregard them because he never responded.
After that there was the tightest security around to palace and I felt like a prisoner under lockdown. There were few details we as women could catch hold of through eavesdropping servants. But we knew that my son had won over a large number of men once loyal to his father. He was younger, more charismatic, more popular. But we were assured that the majority were still conservative and favored my husband and that surely he would put down this rebellious upstart.
They were wrong.
Because on that day, I was grabbed and dragged out of the house of women. I was taken to the main floor to the podium used for speeches. And there I faced my son.
He stood before a group of men. Then he turned, pulled off his helmet and came toward me.
My son raped me there in the presence of his government officials.
I understood the symbolism of the act and so did everyone there. As a priestess and Queen I represented the land. To take possession of me, sexually, was to take possession of the land. Soldiers often rape women in the countries they invade for the same reason.
My son wanted to show everyone his authority, to remove all doubt that he was the new King. That meant ravishing the Queen, even if the conquered Queen was his own mother.
I knew what his intentions were when he started towards me; and I began to weep.
What system was this, where a boy is torn out his mothers arms that he should become such a stranger to her? Taken away, never to know her, so that he looks on her like he would look upon any other woman?
I looked in his eyes and I saw my own eyes. I looked at his face and I saw his fathers face. Funny how I never considered to fight him, to reach out and slap him. I was too overcome with grief, shock and disbelief. Somehow I didn’t think he would really do it.
I always considered that he would use one of my handmaids for a replacement.
Stand in’s could always be used in special circumstances like these. For whatever reason my son didn’t think this was good enough. Perhaps he thought it would compromise the authority of his office, he thought he should have the real Queen and no substitute would do.
He pushed me over the podium and I began to beg.
“Please, you are not a conquering outsider, you’re no foreigner, you are my own son! I have many beautiful handmaids of which you could take your pick! Choose anyone to your liking!”
He did not respond nor act as if he had heard me at all. With one hand he held me, and with the other he lifted my garments leaving me nude in the eyes of all.
I covered my face not wanting them all to see my tears and despair. My body might be open to them all, but not my emotions. I would try to get through this with any scrap of dignity I could hold onto.
My son would do what ever he felt he needed to do.
He took my head in both his hands and kissed me roughly. Then leaned me backward fondling my breasts and belly, reaching around to cup my buttocks. I supposed he was doing this to arouse himself enough to perform for an audience. His eyes raked over my naked flesh, up and down and back again.
He reached both his hands between my legs to pry them apart. His fingers felt like they might bruise me, gripping fast to my thighs ensuring I could not, would not, move to escape. And then he pinned me down firmly with his weight.
The sound I made was something between a gasp and a scream when I felt his hips lay down on top of my own, when I the tip of his manhood pressing against the entrance of the holy door.
In a state of panic I began to struggle, kicking and bucking beneath him, hoping to dismount him before he could enter me. He only pressed his weight down on me pinning me flat. I wondered how many other women he had taken in this manner.
My face buried his neck, I turned my mouth towards his ear, strands of his hair sticking to my lips.
His hips rose up for a moment, and then descended again, pushing himself slowly and deliberately into me. Stroke by careful stroke he buried himself deeper, inch by inch, until I had taken in the entire length of him.
Once he was fully enveloped inside he propped up on his arms and looked down at me. His own mother spread out beneath him, thighs splayed like any wanton court companion.
I looked up at him. My son, the charismatic warrior, who had given me so much pride and so much worry. And now this.
I decided I would have to play a game with my mind, to get through this I would have to trick myself. It could be done, and it could work.
He already looked so much like his canlı bahis siteleri father, I could imagine he was my husband. I concentrated for a moment, but my son was so vigorous it did not last. He was nothing like his father, who had not visited my bedchambers in quite some time, even before the war had started. He was an older man, and not in prime sexual condition.
And then I thought, this was not the first Prince to have entertained himself with my body. There had been a few young warriors to take their pleasure of me. I could imagine my son was another one of these.
I blanked out my mind, pretending as if he were another lusty aristocrat from my days back in the temple, a young soldier from a privileged family. Yes, that would work.
He was strong, his body was hard. I closed my eyes.
He pounded away at me, moving, flexing, gripping. He bit at my nipples. He toyed with me using his hands and fingers. He was a juggernaut intent on claiming my body, the land, the throne, and the crown.
He would not stop.
With all the vigor of his youth, he demonstrated skills he had gleaned from practice with gods know how many young maidens.
I wept as I orgasm, this pleasure born of grief.
My sons eyes however, shone with victory. His then looked up at his lieutenants. Pridefully he demonstrated his prowess and power with a self satisfied sweeping gesture of his arm, as if to say “Look what I have done.” He was gloating because of the orgasm he had torn out of my body.
The land would respond favorably to him, even if he was claiming it by force.
He summoned for the other women, my maids, who rushed forward and grabbed me, carrying me back to the hall as fast as their feet could move. They were in as much shock as I.
They treated me as if I were ill, or injured. Putting me to bed and waiting on me, frequently checking up and asking after my condition. I was not around to hear the gossip, but I am sure the details spread like a house on fire.
I could not walk into a room that was not filled with hushed whispers, suddenly silenced by my appearance at the doorway…which would then be followed by looks of pity.
Everyone was afraid to talk to me. My only solace was temporary, that is, his temporary absence. He was not in residence for a few weeks, as the business of establishing his kingdom carried him elsewhere.
When he returned I planned to keep permanently out of sight. But he called for me the same night he returned. I was later told that he grabbed the nearest servant and asked “Why is the Queen not in my bed?”
I was unaware of this as I faced him, in his chambers. He was half nude and I was wearing as many robes as one person could wear all at once. I kept my eyes on the floor all the way there. But once in his presence I remembered that I was still a queen and presented myself with as much calm dignity as I knew how. He took note of this and gave me an appreciative look.
I had given careful thought about what to say to him. I wanted to cut him off before he could apologize.
“My Son, I understand that you did what you felt was necessary. We need never discuss it again.”
“Good. Now take of those robes and come to bed.”
Startled, I jumped backward. This was no apology.
I was both angry and confused. This he must’ve seen.
“Why are you surprised? I’m the new King, I’ve claimed the land and its Queen by Right of Conquest.”
What is that saying, about the letter of the law, verses the spirit of the law…
“I’m your mother!”
“And I’m your King.”
We stood there for what seemed like several minutes. Each of us convinced of our own truth and reason.
I felt faint and had to take a seat.
“Don’t call me son. Call me Your Highness, like you did my father.”
I suppose he expected that would make things easier for me, mentally. Or maybe he just liked hearing me say it.
“Your Highness. I don’t understand why you want this.”
“You mean you don’t understand why I want you.”
“All men want you. Why should I be any different?”
He was standing entirely too close for my comfort.
“You’re a legend. I heard the tales of your seductive wiles; they circulated among the boys at school. My friends came to me with stories they’d heard; they couldn’t stop asking about you. Your bewitching looks, your way with men, your sexual abilities…isn’t this how you pulled my father? He made you queen because you gave him the best he’d ever had.”
So that’s why his friends had been so eager to meet me.
“That is not why your father married me!”
(Honestly I’d never been sure.)
“He thought I’d make a good queen.”
“You had his head so turned around with desire he couldn’t see straight.”
He knelt down at my level.
“You’re an expert at that, aren’t you mother? They trained you for that at the temple didn’t they? How to toy with a man until he’s at your mercy. I’ve been to your old temple, mother, where you learned your skills. I thought of finding a wife where my father found his. I’ve seen the girls there, and have partaken of their charms. They all admire you and aspire to be like you. They are good mother, but not good enough for a king.”