A Tale of Ties and Binds - Chapter 32

Chapter 32. A Vengeance of Victims

With the chaos of battle in full motion around her, Penelope screamed for her treacherous younger sister. "Lydiaaa! LYDIAAAAA!" She was going to punish that girl. She was going to tackle her into the dirt and tear the matriarchal armour from her chest. She was going to make her sister regret everything she'd ever done. "LYDIAAA!"

The sigil of the Household of the Scylla was in full flutter atop the barracks. It was rightfully hers, stolen. The hall tent was long enough to house a hundred of her sisters-in-arms. How many would stand in her way, Penelope wondered. How many would welcome her return?

She burst into the tent, whip uncoiled and shield held high. "LYDIA! WHERE ARE..."

It seemed she was late to the party. The Athenians were already there, the Scylla sisters-in-arms already subdued, the fight already over. How annoying. There were obvious signs of what happened. Deep scuffs in the entrance and a dozen soldiers struggling in strict hogties told of a heated battle right there. She recognised a few of the faces - cousins of cousins - though several of them were blondes. There were never any blondes in her household when she was the matriarch. No doubt they were provided from the Celt's barbaric stock.

Deeper inside, the captives were more spread out. It was clear that the Athenians had captured them last because they'd taken the time to bind them to the frames of their beddings. Some were already locked in a sapphic twist, much to their ambivalence. A few were still in the process of being bound, fighting for and failing to secure their freedom.

Among those being tied spreadeagled to her bed was Alexis the Binder, the strongest woman in the Scylla Household, her massive breasts heaving with every laboured breath and her midnight hair sodden with sweat. The games-winner with the Spartan physique was possibly the only one who could have stopped Lydia when she seized the matriarchy. But all she did was passively accept the traitorous new matriarch. And there she lay, spread wide and exhausted from her struggles, her clothes a tatter on the floor with an Athenian soldier tightly securing her ankles apart.

Penelope approached. "Where is she?!" Her voice was so abruptly loud that it prompted the Athenian to halt her ropework.

It took a moment for the Binder to realise that the woman standing over her was her former matriarch. It had been over a year since Penelope had been betrayed and Alexis probably never expected to see her again, let alone dressed in the tight and revealing garments of a whore. "P-Penelope? Is that you?"

Penelope didn't have time for happy reunions. "Tell me!"

"What? Who?"

"Lydia! Who else!"

Alexis had a confused look on her face. She never was the brightest, but then she was never expected to be. "Lydia? She... she's not here. She's still back at the estate."

Penelope gritted her teeth at the deceit. "Do you expect me to believe that my sister, the Matriarch of this Household, did not wish to lead her troops into battle? When did you start believing me a fool!?"

There was genuine panic on her face. "I swear it, Penelope, by the goddesses! Lydia sent me in her stead. She barely leaves the estate anymore. It's been this way for six moons. She's... she's trying to get pregnant."

"Pregnant." The word left a bitter taste on her tongue. Lydia was hoping to secure her matriarchy with a daughter. Who would dare attempt to overthrow an expecting mother? "Six moons, you said? So why isn't she with child already?"

"We dare not say," the Binder said timidly. "She'd punish us for merely suggesting."

It took her a moment, but Penelope soon realised what that meant. She couldn't help but take some wry enjoyment in the irony. How the goddesses have their fun. "So... my little sister is barren. Ha! Haha!" She felt her eyes welling up with tears of joy.

"Penelope," Alexis prompted, "I'm glad you're back. Could you possibly have me untied now?"

What an absurd suggestion. "And rob this brave Athenian of her glory? I wouldn't dare. And it doesn't matter how you feel since you won't be a part of my household for much longer. You betrayed me when you supported my sister. Consider yourself banished."

"Banished?! Penelope, I had no choice!"

"Daphne had a choice!" Penelope snapped. "She chose loyalty and honour while you chose cowardice and self-preservation! I'm finished with you, spineless deserter." She nodded to the Athenian. "Do with her as you wish. She's all yours." Penelope turned her shoulder and made her way back outside to the music of desperate begging and wasted prayers, followed by muffled wails of humiliation.

I need a horse, Penelope suddenly realised. She found one lapping at an overturned bowl of half-cooked soup. It didn't seem at all bothered by the chaos taking place around it. Soldiers ran half-naked and screaming from tent to tent, whirling nets over their heads as they chased down the last remnants of the Trojan garrison, and still the horse kept licking. She grabbed at its reins and jumped into its saddle.

Before she could gallop away, the flame-haired Daphne came running up to her. "Captain! What are you doing? There are still Trojans to be captured."

"Tell the General to go ahead with the attack on the capital as planned. I'll join you there. You'll find a tent not far from here filled with our bound sisters-in-arms. Sort through them, decide who you can trust and secure their release. This is my order to you as my new heiress."

"Heiress?" asked the green-eyed nymph with a hint of surprise, though noticeably delighted by the honour. "But what are you doing?"

"I'm going home."

"Home? To the Scylla estate? But you're still dressed like a whore. Shouldn't you get some armour?"

Penelope double-checked her whip and her shield. "Don't worry, Daphne. I'll get some armour... when I strip it off my sister's chest."

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How little had changed in her absence. The road stretching along the curve of the bay was as dry and dusty as ever, the Aegean Sea to the east just as salty. It had been so long she could scarcely believe it was real. How many times had she dreamt of this moment? Was she dreaming now? She'd been riding non-stop since she left the battle and night had given way to mid-morning. Penelope hoped she hadn't fallen asleep in the saddle.

The last time she'd galloped down this track was on the day Queen Astrid had gifted her Logical Phallusy, the phallic slave from Athens. It was from him that Penelope had learned of the Celt's scheming, so she had jumped on a horse and raced towards the city to warn the queen. She'd hoped to pass through the slave market district to warn her sisters-in-arms of the possibility first. That was when Lydia had lured her into a dungeon owned by the Celt and knocked her to the ground, betraying her to the most dangerous woman in Thessaly. Would revenge taste as sweet as she'd hoped?

After one of many vast stretches of olive fields owned by the estate, Penelope came across a familiar well beside the road. As a year earlier, it was attended by a slave whose hands were tied before her with the old and tattered leathers from a horse's bridle. Penelope recalled a mental note she'd made on that fateful morning to purchase the slave from whoever owned her. The Scylla estate had taken good care of their slaves while she was the matriarch - better care than this girl was receiving. She would have been in good hands. Penelope was unsure if that much had remained the same in her absence.

Upon reining up beside the well to rehydrate her horse, Penelope addressed the slave girl. "Excuse me, where is your mistress?"

The girl shrugged her shoulders meekly as she worked the winch to raise the bucket.

Having spent a considerable amount of time as a slave herself, Penelope felt sorry for the girl. A different idea crossed her mind. With a series of sharp tugs, she pulled each of the small metallic tokens from the decorations on her skirt and brassiere. They must be worth something, she reasoned. She stacked them in a neat pile of shiny gold on the lip of the well.

The slave girl stared confusedly at her. Had she been so unkindly treated that she couldn't comprehend what was happening? Penelope took the girl's hands and untied them. She looked her in the eye. "Your freedom belongs to you now. Do not squander it."

It took a moment for her to understand, but then she turned and ran. And how that girl ran. She was a mere speck in the distance when Penelope finished watering her horse and had completely disappeared by the time Penelope was back in the saddle. It was not a day the captain would turn her back to injustices. A standard ignored is a standard accepted.

As that free girl ran south to discover her future, Penelope rode north to confront her past.

The estate was but a shadow of its former glory. In her time, Penelope had seen the stone walls built, a balcony extension off the east wing and a brand new roof for the kennels to keep the hounds dry during the rains. Lydia had contributed nothing, and had apparently done less to maintain what she'd stolen. The walls were cracked and crumbling, the wooden struts holding the balcony aloft looked to be half rotted and the corner of the kennel's roof had collapsed, amongst other areas of neglect. Penelope hadn't known her sister to be oblivious, so that meant she must have been cruel to allow such decay. Even a spot of rust had come to taint the wrought-iron sigil standing tall over the main gates.

There was a slave sweeping at the path as Penelope rode her horse through the gates. The slave was suspicious at first and then appeared quite surprised, though she made no noise to show it. She dropped her broom and ran ahead, reaching the main building well before Penelope. That worried her. She didn't know how many soldiers Lydia had at the estate. The lack of an alarm call kept her on edge.

She dismounted her horse to walk the rest of the way, slipping the bronze shield onto her arm. Hooves can be deceptively loud. When she arrived in the courtyard of the main building, a small crowd of a dozen slaves had gathered. Each wore little more than a loose linen tunic in varying states of disrepair. Some were bound at the wrists, in-front or behind depending on what tasks they were assigned, and all had soft leather collars around their necks with a small bronze ring imbedded at the base. They stared at her as she approached, not quite sure if they recognised the bronze-haired woman dressed in the revealingly tight blue outfit as the matriarch they once served. All they needed to do was call out, yell for help, and they'd have Lydia's gratitude for the rest of their lives.

But instead, they knelt.

One by one, they dropped to their knees to welcome her back as their rightful and forsaken matriarch. That was all it took for the tears to start falling. It almost made the last year seem worth it. All the times she'd been tied up and forced to do humiliating things, all the times she'd tied up others and forced them to do humiliating things, all the times she'd felt angry or scared or alone; she'd finally returned to the place where she was still loved, to a place she could call a home.

She wiped away the tears with the back of her hand. It was not the time to get sentimental. It was a time for vengeance. The only emotion she should be feeling was anger. But she didn't feel like yelling anymore. It was no longer that kind of fury. It was colder than that.

The slaves parted to allow Penelope through the front door and bowed their heads as she passed. Penelope moved from room to room, remembering the life she would soon reclaim. She hunted through the common room where she used to brief her soldiers the night before a mission, through to the great hall where she would entertain her guests. Every slave she encountered smiled to recognise her, slightly gesturing towards another door and eventually to the staircase leading up to what had been (and was soon to be again) her solar.

The stairs groaned with age as she ascended. They never used to do that. Had it been so long? The door at the top opened on a squeaky hinge to reveal a sun-lit room filled with maps and scrolls and various trophies from the campaigns of her time as matriarch and every matriarch who came before her. Lydia had again contributed nothing to the collection, Penelope didn't fail to note. On the table was Lydia's silver serpent-headed five-tailed whip, and there on a stand beside it, completely unguarded, were the components of the Scylla matriarchal armour.

She ran her fingers across them, just to make sure she wasn't dreaming. The boiled leather armour still felt real, smooth even after all its years of wear. Not even its black colour had yet faded to brown. The broad metal rivets were still her favourite, beaten into the design of her sigil, and the bronze bracers and matching greaves were just as shiny as when they'd been taken from her. She slipped the whore attire off to redress herself, bracers tied to her forearms, greaves tugged firmly around her shins, and the bodice hugging every curve of her chest and waist.

With a deep breath, she marvelled at how wondrous it felt to be herself again. It had been one year, two moons and five days, but the armour still fit her perfectly.

It was in that silence that Penelope noticed she could hear a noise. Grunting, she realised, coming from the bed chamber, as well as the tell-tale squeak of a wooden bedframe grinding on wooden floorboards. Then she remembered not only who she was before, but who she'd become since. There was once a naïve girl who wore that armour, who thought the Celt to be the most dangerous woman in Greece. But could the Celt have done all the things Penelope had achieved? Could she have rescued her fellow slaves from bondage at the hands of Illyrian pirates, saved a city-full of Etruscans from being systematically captured and raped, fought off Sirens, tricked Cyclopes and bested Minotaurs? Could the famed Titania the Celt have done all that? Would she have? Or was Penelope, Slaver of Slavers and Bane of Beasts, more dangerous than she gave herself credit for? Her hands curled into tight fists. Penelope grabbed the serpent-headed whip. With the memories of the last year burning hot in her mind, she pushed open the door to the bed chamber.

What a sight Lydia was, straddling the phallic slave. Logical Phallusy was tied spreadeagled to the bed, his chiselled muscles looking every bit as refined as the day he'd first arrived as a gift. Lydia sat atop his goddess-given meat with such intensity in her posture that she could have just as easily been riding a wild stallion, churning her hips in a circular motion, her breasts bouncing with every revolution. Her auburn hair cascaded down her back to brush the top of her arse, seemingly uncut in over a year. Pale red streaks stained Logical Phallusy's skin where Lydia had dragged her talon-like nails across his chest. She was unaware of Penelope's presence, completely focused on the phallic slave underneath her.

Of all the ways she'd imagined this moment, the scene before her had never crossed Penelope's mind. She'd envisaged a one-on-one battle with entire scores of soldiers watching, waiting to see who would take the matriarchy once and for all. Or perhaps a heated race on horseback through the olive fields, culminating in a dirt-coated struggle. She felt slightly cheated that she wouldn't get to physically tear the armour off Lydia's skin, as had been her cathartic hope. Her sister was already completely naked.

Beside the door was a chest in which Penelope used to keep her coils of leathern rope. The ropes still there when she opened it, so she took a handful. Lydia still hadn't noticed.

Such ignorance of her surroundings incited Lydia to squeal like a little pig when Penelope grabbed her from behind, slapping her hand down across her sister's lying mouth and dragging her off the bed and down to the floor. Lydia's skin was slick and sticky with sweat. She must have been suffering from shock, because it was unsatisfyingly easy for Penelope to wrestle her onto her back, pin the bitch down, wrench her wrists together and start winding the leathers around and around and around. It was all happening so quickly that Penelope didn't have the time to properly enjoy it.

Not until Penelope had completed her third tight knot did Lydia vocalise her complaints with words as opposed to various animal noises. "Who are you?!" she yelled. "What are you doing?!" she squeaked. "Let me go!" she begged.

Penelope made no reply. Despite having over a year to rehearse this conversation, she'd never been quite sure what to say to the woman who'd hurt her more painfully than anyone else ever could. It had come to a point where actions would speak louder than words. For that same reason, she decided to forgo gagging her sister. She wanted to hear her desperate wails of lamentation. She wanted the whole world to hear them, and learn what comes of those who anger Penelope of the Scylla.

"Please," Lydia begged, "the ropes are too tight! I can't feel my fingers!" And still, her cries fell on deaf ears.

She dragged Lydia to her feet and shoved her forcefully through the door. That was when her sister twisted and finally got a good look at the mystery captor.

"Penelope!?"

How it made her blood boil to hear that voice say her name.

"Penelope! You... you've returned!" The bitch sounded surprised. Had she expected Penelope to simply disappear?

With another firm thrust, Penelope pushed Lydia towards the staircase, only slightly concerned she might fall down and hurt herself.

"Penelope! What are you doing?!" Her voice was shrill like a little girl's. "You're being unreasonable! Just stop and think about this!"

Unreasonable? Once upon a time, that would have given Penelope reason for pause. The Penelope of a year ago was too focused on being noble, always thinking of the consequences before doing what felt right. It was that Penelope who'd lost her matriarchy.

Dragged by her auburn hair from room to room, Lydia's hysteric cries of panic drew every slave in the estate. They were watching in the great hall. They were watching in the common room. They were watching as Penelope forced Lydia through the kitchens where, inspired by a story she'd once heard, the vengeful older sister snatched a slab of salted beef from a chopping-board. She almost wished Lydia would ask what the meat was for, if only so the traitor might have had longer to let her imagination run wild with the possibilities.

Past the kitchens and out into the olive fields, they were followed by a parade of curious household slaves. Penelope located the sturdiest fence post and hauled her naked sister towards it. Maintaining her silence, she forced Lydia to her knees with the post neatly inserted between her back and her bound wrists.

"Penelope, please!" Lydia cried, wriggling within the callously tight ropes. "Loosen these cursed knots! What do you think you're doing?!"

Revenge. Penelope gave answer by using her extra rope to tie Lydia's legs apart either side of the post, ensuring her auburn-framed womanhood was wide open and exposed for all to see. Her sister struggled furiously, almost pitifully, like a fish caught in a net as it gasped for air. Penelope bent down to look Lydia in her bright eyes, hoping to locate the dark spirit hiding within. Where is the girl I grew up with, who I taught to fight and bind, who used to laugh and dance and play with me in these very fields? That girl wasn't in there anymore. All Penelope saw was fear - the fear of a silly little girl who was too stubborn to realise her terrible mistake.

Without fanfare or warning, Penelope rammed the beef deep up between her sister's legs.

She'd never heard her sister scream so loud. She'd never heard anyone scream so loud. It was a wonder that, despite not being prepared for such a thing, Penelope was completely unfazed by it. In fact, it was all she could do not to laugh. She stood up and made off in the opposite direction, ignoring the desperate pleas of mercy behind her with startling lack of compassion.

The kennels weren't far away. Lydia would have seen Penelope enter, heard her unlock the cages, and witnessed as the pack of hounds pursued the scent of meat. Every one of them raced eagerly across the grounds towards their auburn-haired lick toy. Revenge, as it turned out, tasted just like beef.

Penelope approached one of her handmaidens staring with wide-eyed fascination at the scene of bestial cunnilingus taking place in the olive field. It seemed another thing Lydia had neglected to do was adequately feed the hounds. They snapped at each other to gain access to her womanhood, though only the longest and most dextrous canine tongue would get to taste the meat tucked deep within. Penelope caught the slave's attention with a hand on her shoulder. "Have a fresh horse saddled and ready," she ordered.

The handmaiden looked her up and down, then bowed her head. "As you command... Matriarch."

Continued in Chapter 33

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