Two Hundred Eyes (Exhibitionism Multiple Partner Menage) (The Erotic Adventures of Heraklea Book 6) Read online

  Two Hundred Eyes Copyright © 2015 Roxie Noir

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  This book is intended for audiences 18 and over only.

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  Two Hundred Eyes

  Roxie Noir

  Previously on The Erotic Adventures:

  Heraklea stood, still wrapped in her bedsheets, in the largest hall she had ever seen. She wasn’t even positive that she was indoors; she thought she saw a vaulting silver ceiling high above, but it could have been the sky. The floor was white marble, polished to a high shine and cold on her bare feet. Fifty feet away was a golden dais, columns on either side of the dais that went so high she couldn’t see their tops. The dais had six steps leading up to it, and on it were perched two enormous thrones, gold, the armrests carved in intricate patterns and figurines. Hunters chased deer, boars, lions across the thrones; women swooned; men drank from vases.

  What really concerned Heraklea was the two people in the thrones. For one thing, they seemed slightly larger than people should be. Not giants, but slightly wrong, too large by a quarter. For another, they were more beautifully dressed that anyone she had seen before: the man’s robes and the woman’s dress were shot through with threads of silver and gold, and each wore a heavily jeweled diadem on their head. The man had a gray mane and beard that gave him a slightly wild look, mismatched to his immaculate clothing, the immaculate room; the woman had dark hair and bright violet eyes. Heraklea had never seen eyes that color before.

  She didn’t need a map to tell her where she was: this was Mount Olympus, home of the gods, and these two were Zeus and Hera, the king and queen. Heraklea pulled her sheet more firmly around her and wished she were properly dressed. Technically, Zeus was her father or, at least, he had sown his seed in her mother’s womb under false pretenses. Amphitryon was her father, as far as she was concerned. But her feelings on the matter probably weren’t going to be much use with Hera, who was notoriously jealous of Zeus’ conquests and notoriously nasty to the subsequent offspring.

  “First she fucks half of Greece, then you try and marry her off and she fucks her husband half to death,” Hera continued, looking down at Heraklea like she was a particularly revolting insect.

  Zeus leaned on one fist, ignoring Hera. “What are we going to do with you?” he said.

  Silence. Heraklea looked from one to the other and back again. “Is Lykos dead?” she finally asked, her voice sounding tiny in the great hall.

  “Not yet,” said Hera. “Just fucked into a coma. Never seen anything like it. Have you, darling? You’ve got more experience in that sort of thing.”

  Zeus frowned and continued to ignore his wife. “It’s unfortunate you turned out female. Everyone expects this behavior of a rich young man.”

  “Helen never acted like this,” Hera said.

  “I’m sorry,” Heraklea said, tearing up. “I didn’t mean to hurt him.”

  “No,” rumbled Zeus. “But still, you must atone.”

  “King Eurystheus has been having a lot of problems lately, down in Argos,” Hera said. “He could use some help killing monsters.”

  “Hmm, yes,” Zeus said. “Maybe that will exhaust you.”

  Hera smirked, her beautiful face an ill-concealed mask of rage. “He’s a very demanding man,” she said. “You’re to do anything and everything that he asks of you, or you’ll be his servant forever.”

  “Go then,” Zeus said, and with a wave of his hand, golden light filled Heraklea’s vision again, and when she could see again, she found herself in a smaller room, though still grand, in front of another throne, a surprised-looking king on it.

  It was still dark when Heraklea heard the pounding on her door, and as she woke she felt like she was surfacing from deep underwater. The pounding continued and she jumped out of bed, wrapped herself in her sheets and flung the door open, thinking that there had to be some emergency: a fire, a flood, something that really necessitated this pre-dawn wakeup call.

  Instead, one of the palace guards stood next to two young men, the guard dressed in his usual outfit and the two young men wearing what were clearly their nicest clothes, rough silks that looked as though they’d been lovingly washed and patched and ironed for years.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  The guard stood perfectly straight, face hard to see under his helmet. Between the early hour and the confusion, Klea didn’t even bother to check the rest of him out. “You’re to go with these young men,” he said. “Birds are attacking their crops.”

  Klea stared. No one moved.

  “Birds,” she said.

  The two teenagers exchanged a look.

  “It’s not even light out yet,” she said. The two young men—boys, really; brothers, it looked like—looked at her wide-eyed. They’d probably never seen a woman either this tall or this barely dressed before. The guard, on the other hand, couldn’t have seemed less interested in any of that.

  “King’s orders,” he said.

  “The king knows I got back from his last task not six hours ago,” she said. “I only just fell asleep.”

  He said nothing, but seemed to stare at a spot on the wall just beyond her head.

  “Come back in five hours,” she said, closed the door in their faces, and went back to bed.

  She had only just gotten under the covers and started to drift off when something in the chair by the fireplace started to glow. Klea shut her eyes and pretended it wasn’t happening: she was sleep-deprived was all, and if she just nodded off, no one would appear in her bedroom and tell her to do anything.

  “Wake up, slut,” said a female voice. A voice she’d heard heard before. Klea opened one eye from deep under the covers, only to see a very tall, very large, glowing woman sitting in a chair, examining her nails.

  “What do you want, Hera,” she said, not moving.

  “I’m just here to remind you of our agreement,” Hera, queen of the gods, said.

  Six weeks before, Klea had seen Hera in a remarkably similar situation. That time, she’d also been wearing little more than bedsheets, though back then she’d just fucked her husband into a coma, and Hera was sitting on her throne, next to Zeus, telling her that her punishment was to go work for the king. Apparently this sort of thing happened when you were the product of Zeus and a mortal woman.

  “That agreement was with Zeus,” Klea said.

  “I take care of his affairs when he’s busy,” Hera said. Klea opened her eye again. Hera looked like the cat that swallowed the canary. “As you and your mother know, he’s often busy.”

  “It’s not my fault he wants to have sex with everyone but you,” Klea said, and suddenly the room was filled with crackling heat and she was being lifted from her bed to the ceiling, pressed against it, something hot and hard and iron around her throat.

  “Don’t forget your place,” said Hera, her voice huge and raspy. It sounded like a thousand snakes. Klea couldn’t say anything. She clasped both hands around the thing at her neck and pulled with all her strength, but it wouldn’t budge, no matter how much she struggled. Black spots wiggled at the edge of her vision and the crowded in like ants until, as she was about to pass out, she was thrown back on her bed.

  “Get to it,” said Hera, in human form again. Then, with a sizzling sound, she disappeared. Klea lay back, gasping.

  The birds, at least, were ferocious, fierce, bronze-taloned man-eaters, according to t
he two teenagers who’d been sent to fetch her. They destroyed crops, they chased farmers out of their fields and into their homes, and worst of all, they crept into the peoples’ houses at night and... at this point, the boys would always go silent and refuse to say more, no matter how Klea goaded or threatened them. After a while, once she couldn’t get more out of them, they lapsed into silence and she tried to go to sleep in the saddle. It was hours to Stymphalos, may as well get some sleep.

  The town itself was too small to have an inn, so when they arrived in the evening, Klea went to stay with the boys’ family. She stabled her horse and then they ate a quiet dinner of olives and rabbit stew before retiring to straw mattresses in the next room. A straw mattress wasn’t the best, but Klea was so tired after her long ride today, not to mention taking those two river gods the day before, that she fell asleep in seconds.

  It couldn’t have been more than twenty minutes later that the door slammed open, breaking the wooden bar laid across it. The firelight was low, but Klea saw two men come in and grab both boys, each holding a long bronze knife and an elaborate, feathered face mask. She went for her sword, under her mattress as always, but before she could grab it each masked man held a knife to a boy’s throat. Even in the low light, she could see a trickle of blood make its way down to their collarbones, could see the terror on their parents’ faces.

  “Stop,” she said. She held up both hands and stood, wearing nothing more than a short tunic. No armor, no weapons.

  “Come with us,” one hissed.

  “Me?” Klea asked.

  A third man, also wearing a bird mask, came in the door and waited. He held up a length of rope, pulled it tight between his hands. “Over here,” he said.

  Every inch of Klea itched to pick up her sword and lay waste to these feathery assholes, but she knew they’d probably kill at least one of the boys before she could get them all. She wasn’t dead yet. There was still time, and this way, the teenagers could live. She walked to the third man and held out her hands, and he tied them together tightly, in front of her, held onto the rope, and led her out of the cottage. The other two men released the boys and followed them, closing the door.

  “Where are we going?” Klea demanded. She was barefoot and the night was chilly.

  No one answered her.

  They walked out of the village, down the dirt path, and into the foothills. There was a full moon, so she could see the vague shapes of the things they passed—trees, hillsides, a burnt shell of an old house—but couldn’t see very well where they were going, until they rounded a corner and a big black surface, like flat black glass, emerged. A lake.

  Shit, thought Klea. Are they going to drown me?

  Instead they led her around the shore until she could see firelight that grew closer and closer, and when they were nearly there, she saw what it was: a amphitheater, small, stone, that seated maybe two hundred people, lit by rows of torches. The audience wore small, simple masks over their eyes and noses. Two more men in bird masks waited on the stage.

  The masks were enormous, and looked like they might have been made from an entire bird. They covered each man’s entire head, feathers fanned around the eyes, but the men were all nearly naked from the neck down. Each wore leather briefs and sandals of some sort, and they were all tan and toned, muscles rippling as the men on stage walked to take the rope she was leashed to. All together there were four men, with four differently colored masks: brown, blue, red, and black.

  As she drew closer, the crowd went silent and everyone watched her through their leather masks. She could have heard a pin drop as the man in the black mask came forward, took her rope, and led her onto the small stone stage, where she stood, in the middle, only a thin tunic between her and the cold night, between her and the eyes of the hundred men watching. The stage was about four feet off the ground, the front of it ringed with torches, making it harder to see the men who watched her, but bringing the masked men into a sharp, flickering focus.

  The man in the black mask paced behind her. The others had melted away, off to the side. Klea didn’t like him being behind her, but she didn’t like feeling as though her back was being watched, either. The whole thing made her nervous.

  “This is Heraklea!” the man in the black mask suddenly bellowed, still pacing around the stage. “She is the daughter of Zeus and a mortal woman. And tonight, she is our entertainment!”

  The men in the crowd cheered. They stood and waved their hands, they bellowed, they clapped and stomped their feet, and for a split second Klea felt warmed by this welcome before she thought: what does he mean, entertainment?

  Leaving her hands tied together, the man in the black mask took out a long bronze knife. Instinctively, Herklea ducked and backed away, only to be caught and held by the other three masked men. She closed her eyes and waited as the blade came down, trying as hard as she could to twist out of their grip but failing. It nicked her skin as it cut through her tunic, slicing through both shoulder straps and down her back. As the thin tunic fluttered to the ground, the man put his knife back in his belt, and then smiled at her. His teeth looked huge and white under the black mask.

  A man in a leather mask—some sort of stagehand, maybe—brought a wooden chair to center stage, then left. The man in the red mask led her to it, sat her down, and then murmured, “Put on a good show and we’ll let you go.” She sat in the chair, naked, facing the audience and the lit torches, hands bound and knees together.

  The man in the red mask stood behind her. He smelled sharp and a little smoky, like he’d been standing next to a pine fire. He traced patterns over the nape of her neck, across her collarbones, down her arms, and then, very lightly, began brushing his fingertips against her nipples.

  “Oh,” said Klea, with a gasp. A wave of low noise passed through the audience, and he brushed her nipples with his fingers again.

  His face was next to her ear, the feathers tickling against her. “I said, put on a good show,” he told her, and then he grasped her tied-together hands and thrust them between her legs.

  Klea could hear her heart beat, louder than the low murmur of the crowd of the soft rustling of the fire on the torches. She’d never done anything like this before, which was turning into the theme of her time working for the king. It felt like one thing to show a partner how you felt, and another to put on a show for a hundred waiting, masked men. She looked into the front row and saw the bulges there: every men, semi-erect, at least. Klea licked her lips.

  Slowly, she spread her legs, keeping her bound hands in front of her crotch. This was what they wanted, right? Even as a whisper rushed through the crowd, even as she saw two men in the front begin to touch themselves, she worried that she’d read the situation wrong and what they really wanted was a dramatic soliloquy. She caressed her inner thighs, spreading her bound hands as far apart as they could go, she sat up straight and thrust out her breasts. The man in the red feather mask had melted away to the side, leaving her alone in the chair on the stage. Klea arched her back and scooted to the very edge of the chair, knees as wide as they’d go, and tilted her pelvis up so the audience could see her pussy.

  With her left hand, she spread her lips open, and with her right, she began to rub her clit with gentle, soft circles. Back arched, tits out. Here she could feel the heat of the torches on the fronts of her legs, a little on her cunt, even. She looked down at the audience and saw that every single one of them was looking at her, most eyes between her legs but some on her tits, a few on her face. They were all men and they all had hardons; everyone whose crotch she could see, at least. A couple men had their dicks out already, tunics pulled up and over, hands firmly rubbing up and down the shaft. Just because they were watching her masturbate.

  Klea rubbed herself harder, watched the men touch their cocks in the audience. It felt good to be admired and wanted, she thought; it felt good to make a hundred men at once hard without even touching them. Her pussy swelled below her fingers, the blood rushing in as she thoug
ht of every man, watching. She moaned out loud and it sounded like the audience moaned back, circling her clit faster and faster, feeling an orgasm swell deep inside and then, thinking of the show, she slowed back down. She rolled her hips on the wooden chair, bucking them back and forth. With one hand she circled her entire pussy, showing it to them, opening up the inner lips as well and pushing her fingers in and out, throwing her head back and moaning whenever she did.

  The crowd got louder.

  Klea began circling her clit again with her left hand, leaving just enough room to push the fingers of her right into her pussy. If her hands hadn’t been bound, she thought, she’d have put on a better show—grab her tits, lean back for better balance, but she worked with what she had, movving her hips back and forth on the chair, moaning with her head thrown back, rubbing her clit as hard as she could, and she felt her orgasm begin to close in, heated by a hundred sets of eyes.

  “Oh!” she said, out loud.

  “Come!” shouted someone from the audience.

  “I want to hear you scream!” shouted someone else.

  “Oh, my God,” she said, louder this time.

  “Rub it harder!”

  “I’m coming!” she shouted as the feeling burst up and out of her and she rocked her hips on her chair in time withe waves passing over her. “Oh god, yes!”

  The crowd all shouted at once, a cacophony as they watched her writhe on the chair, one hand still on her pussy and one still in it, insensible to what she was saying. As her hips slowed, the man in the red mask walked onto stage with a bronze knife.

  “Good enough to cut her free?” he asked the crowd.

  “Yes!” they shouted.

  He came around to her front, stood in front of her, between her thighs, and slashed through her rope bonds with that long bronze knife. It glinted in the firelight as the ropes fell away, and as they did, Klea grabbed for the masked man’s leather briefs and pulled them down, freeing his erection so forcefully that it nearly sprung up and hit her in the face. The crowd cheered, and she took the long shaft in both her hands, moving off the chair and onto her knees, turning to the side so that everyone could see. It filled both her fists leaving the head free, long and straight and the color of honey. She felt herself begin to get wet again, just holding the beautiful cock in her hands, in front of her face.