Bred by the Spartans is a book I think I was destined to write. In what I call my ‘actual” life, I’m interested in Greek myth in what you might call a professional way. In fact it turned out, as I wrote the book, that indeed I know too much about the subject, from one point of view: I was constantly fighting the urge to say too much about the gods, and use too much Greek, like calling the Graces by their proper name, the Kharites, and talking all about the strange Spartan system of raising children.
In the end I think I managed to strike a balance between an exciting (and hot) story and faithfulness to the kinds of things that might happen in real Greek myth. I got a lot of help in that from a basic strand of D/s eroticism that runs through the stories, because of the traditional nature of the society that produced them. In the end, the real reason I was destined to write Bred by Spartans may be expressed most simply as the sheer number of times I’ve reached orgasm while thinking about Zeus fucking this or that poor mortal woman or minor goddess in what might be called an atmosphere of dubious consent.
I’ve dealt with that theme in my series EXPLORATIONS, (see especially what was originally the eighth book, Emily, Ravished by Porn and is now best read at the end of The Bride’s Ordeal) but in Bred by the Spartans I had the opportunity to go crazy with the dominant ways of the Greek gods and of the mortal heroes who, at least on the surface of it, did their bidding and received their protection. Here’s an excerpt so you can judge for yourself. Minor goddess Thaleia has been turned mortal and delivered to earth with a curse upon her: every man who sees her wants to ravish her in the most humiliating way possible, and she craves that humiliation, but can never confess it. Here at last, her Spartan protectors, sent by Apollo, have arrived to claim her.
When they stopped to water the oxen, the attendants, themselves exhausted, gave into the pleas of a little group of shepherds, charging them a drachma to take Thaleia off the wagon and have her by the fountain. The shepherds, five in all, put her on her knees and took turns thrusting into her mouth, for the attendants had driven a hard bargain and the shepherds had not been able to afford the extra drachma to use Thaleia’s secret furrow.
Thaleia’s eyes watered as the oldest of the shepherds who clearly had the most experience, took her hair in his hand and held her mouth still while he thrust himself rapidly in and out, saying “See, lads, do it like this. Hold the hair and thrust as deep as you like. It’s even better than plowing her furrow.” There was quiet then except for the wet sounds of the shepherd’s cock going in and out, and Thaleia felt again the floating feeling of strange contentment at being used and humiliated. The shepherd tasted of the dust of the road, and that made Thaleia feel dirty herself–but somehow, too, she wanted to be dirty, filthy, base.
The shepherd said, “Then when you’re ready, you pull out and. . .” he did just that. Thaleia’s eyes had been closed, but she opened them, and saw the shepherd pumping his cock in his hand, and then his white seed jetted out and onto her face, and now she was as filthy as she had craved to be.
One by one the other four shepherds took his place, and, as the leader gave them little lessons in how to use a slut like Thaleia, they filled her mouth with their cocks, and spilled their seed on her face and breasts, praising one another’s efforts and telling Thaleia that she was a good cocksucker.
It was noon, then, and that was when the Spartans arrived.
Thaleia heard one deep voice say “It is she!” and another answer “Indeed.” The voices came from down the road that led to the cities of the middle Peloponnese, Pylos and Argos and Sparta. Thaleia was still on her knees before the shepherds at the fountain that stood by the crossroads, and the attendants of the temple of Zeus at Olympia were beyond them, with the wagon.
Thaleia, the only woman present, knew that somehow they must be referring to her, and she felt, in a way beyond her comprehension, that they had come to rescue her and that Argeia, somehow, had sent them. She turned her semen-covered face to see them coming up the road at an easy jog.
They were gods. They must be gods. By noon on her first day in the lands of men, she had already seen more mortal men than she thought she could count, from the swineherd, to the priests of Zeus and their attendants, to the shepherds, to the many men who had watched enviously from the road as the attendants had used her upon the wagon. Some had been ugly, others had been more pleasant to look upon, but none had looked the slightest bit like the warriors trotting towards her, clad in their bronze breastplates over red chitons, with shield and spear upon their backs, their dark hair flowing in a single braid down their backs.
When the beautiful young goddess Thaleia spurns Zeus’ attentions, he has her thoroughly and shamefully punished and then casts her down from Olympus to walk the earth as a mortal woman. Worse still, he places a curse upon her which will overcome any man who sees her with the desire to claim her in the most humiliating ways possible. Her only hope lies in an ancient power stronger even than the gods… Destiny has decreed that if, in spite of the curse, two men can make her confess that she yearns to be theirs, then she will find a happiness beyond her fate.
After Thaleia’s sister throws herself at the feet of Apollo in desperation and begs for his aid, Apollo appears in a dream to Leontes and Theoleon, two of the bravest warriors of Sparta, and commands them to rescue Thaleia. When the men wake and find the girl naked and distressed, they are torn by two equally powerful instincts: to take her long and hard and make her blush with shame, and to love and protect her as their own.
The three journey to the Oracle at Delphi, who gives them Apollo’s prophecy—that the descendant of two Spartan warriors and a goddess will one day save all Greece from its enemies. But if Thaleia bears the son Apollo has foretold and Zeus relents and allows her to return to Olympus, will her love for her two Spartans be greater than her desire for immortality?
I, Emily Tilton, if I exist, am a human rights lawyer who resides in Greenwich, CT. It’s more likely that I’m actually someone else, who wishes she were as free to play out her real fantasies as Emily Tilton is.
EXPLORATIONS, which now includes some books written in a more conventional way and published by wonderful spanking presses like Blushing Books and Stormy Night Publications, is a narrative version of my nearly lifelong quest to reconcile my submissive erotic orientation with my ethics. See this post on my blog for a frequently updated guide to the series: http://etiltonexplorations.blogspot.com/2013/04/the-explorations-series-so-far.html
Over the many years since I became aware of my sometimes unbearable craving for ravishment, spanking, and above all anal domination, I have tried to come to terms with that craving in more ways than I can count. The first of the ways was by reading, voraciously, every piece of good BDSM erotica (and of course also a ton of bad BDSM erotica) I could find.
Eventually, I read Story of O. As is reflected throughout EXPLORATIONS, it changed my life, though the change has been gradual, and continues to this day. The idea that other women might share the lusts I have by turns been ashamed of and defiantly proud of, that a woman like the real Pauline Réage might write so beautifully of those lusts, and work them out so thoroughly and even pitilessly on a character, put Réage’s famous pencil in my right hand. Or, to put it in the terms of EXPLORATIONS, it put my left hand on the keyboard of my laptop and my right hand in my lap, if you know what I mean. I started to write spanking stories.