The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Cindi was back in her house, now, at last, packed and ready to go.

It was time to tell her the rest. Well, the rest of what she needed to know for this trip home. This was going to be hard. For me. She had called me a God and meant it, so I had to handle this carefully. I had to expose some weakness.

«“Cindi, before you go, there are some things we have to talk about.“»

“Of course, my Lord. Anything you need.”

«“I’ve never been to Themiscyra before.“»

“Well, My Lord, it’s really not that different from any other small city in Greece—”

«“No, baby bitch, you don’t understand. I’ve been observing you for almost your entire time as a superheroine, seventy-plus years. I’ve followed you everywhere you’ve ever gone, except there. When you cross the boundary of the glamour enchantment, I lose contact with you.“»

“Oh ... Oh! Please, My Lord! Please don’t make me go! I—“

«“Shh, Calm down. Now that you and I are close, intimate, connected, I have every confidence that I will be able to hold onto you across the boundary. But I don’t KNOW that. Since I found out that Themiscyra was there I’ve tried all sorts of ways to get in. All with no success. So, without getting too, um, technical, the various modes of failure give me reason to believe that this attempt will succeed.“»

“My Lord ... I sense a ‘but’ coming.”

«“Right. If I fail ... if I lose contact with you, I want you to leave Themiscyra once a day, if possible, to report in with me, even just an hour or even a half hour will do.“»

“My Lord ... I need more than a half hour a day with you. I need it.“

«“I swear, Cindi, if all you can give me is a half hour, I will fill that half hour with a full day’s worth of pleasure.“»

Uncertainly she consented, “Yes ... My Lord.” She didn’t really have any other choice.

«“But we won’t worry about it unless we need to. And we are going to cross that boundary with every confidence that it will work, that I will still be with you afterward.“»

“My Lord ... how ... long have you known about Themiscyra?”

«“Seventy-two years, baby bitch. Ever since a certain Greek superheroine came to the attention of an RAF air marshal in Crete. I was monitoring him to keep track of Nazi expansion. I could have tracked the Nazis directly, but I always felt like I needed a bath after reading Nazi minds.“»

“I see, almost from the beginning then. The beginning of ‘Majestic Woman’, that is.”

«“Yes.“»

“Why didn’t you take me then, My Lord? Why did you make me wait seven decades to find my real purpose in life?”

«“I had to trap you. I had to tame you. I had to do it all without breaking your mind and driving you mad. I’ve done this before. You had to believe it was a dream, until you no longer wanted it to be a dream. To believe the dream, you had to believe that the person bowing to me was really you, or at least your dream avatar. That means I needed Annette. I had to do it the way I did it to teach you. Had I done it any other way you would be a drooling idiot or a soulless robot. I needed to change you. But I needed you to still be you at the end.“»

“So it’s just one more example of my pride, my haughty arrogance, keeping me from being the person I was meant to be.”

How do you answer something like that. I decided not to argue with her. Then it hit me. This is exactly how I want her to feel about her old life. Why was I even thinking of trying to convince her otherwise? «“Yes, little cocksucker. It is.“»

“My life was a waste until I met you, My Lord.”

I smiled, marvelling once again at how swiftly I had gained such complete control over this erstwhile heroine. Now if I could only keep myself under control! «“That’s okay, baby. Your life’s not over yet.“»

“So ... Annette, My Lord?”

«“Specially bred to be your doppelganger. You had to believe it was you in the dream, so I had to breed your twin. I was prepared for it to take as long as three hundred years, but I got lucky in only the third generation. You’re worried about those seventy wasted years? It could have been much, much longer. Come on, sweet tits, let’s go talk to your mama.“»

She signaled for teleport. We departed.

Banshee, the Wraith’s young “associate” was duty officer today. Blake hated the word “sidekick”; he thought it was demeaning; he was probably right. All business, Banshee took Majestic Woman’s desired placement—three thousand feet above the island of Crete—and placed her there with nary a stray word exchanged. Cindi picked Crete. I seemed to have stirred up some memories. Good.

Themiscyra, Greece, April 22, 1941

It was going to be the scariest night of Kynthia’s life, but it ended up being the most thrilling instead. Ten days before, she had saved a pilot from the wreckage of his Whitley bomber, over the outcries of her Amazon sisters to let him die. She had nursed him back to some semblance of health single-handedly, over the active hindrance of her own mother.

Now their patience, Hippolyta’s, the Amazon Queendom’s, was at an end. He had to go. But outside of the glamour of Themiscyra, in his current state, he would have no hope of evading the Nazis. So Kynthia was going with him.

Her own mother called her a fool, blasphemously sneering at “Aphrodite’s curse of great compassion”. She followed Kynthia and the pilot all the way to the glamour’s edge, ignoring the man and lambasting her daughter. In fact, it seemed as if half of Themiscyra had followed them, carrying torches, guns, and rifles, bound and determined that the evil man would leave now.

For his part, the pilot was silent. His brief time among the legendary Amazons has taught him better; his opinion was less than nothing. Besides, Kynthia had told him to conserve his energy for her insane plan to get him back to his base in Crete.

In fact if he had piped up, Kynthia was certain he would have added his voice to Hippolyta’s. He had already told Kynthia in no uncertain terms that she was going to get herself killed trying to save him. But in the end there was nothing he could do to stop her. So she half-carried him, away from the protection the Gods’ glamour, toward the ongoing blitzkrieg.

Then, there at the edge of the Queendom’s glamour, everything changed. An unnatural hum presaged a day-bright glow, which resolved itself into five heavenly, beautiful, dreamlike figures. Kynthia’s five patron Gods appeared to them all, floating in midair.

The Gods spoke! But it was impossible to tell which one was speaking! From sentence to sentence the voices changed. But the message was always the same.

“We are moved, child ... By your compassion for the stranger in your midst ... The time has come, Kynthia ... For you to meet your destiny and fulfill your birthright ... You have been chosen ... To carry out Our mission in the world of Men ... Prepare now to receive new gifts ... Of great power to use in Our service.“

Kynthia was awestruck. She had never really put much stock in all that “Child of Destiny” clap-trap her mother had fed her growing up. But here was irrefutable proof that it was all true!

Seeing the scene then fresh in Cindi’s memory, I could see that the gods’ reason for intervening was just so much bullshit. The most obvious reason for them to intervene would be to prevent “Kynthia” from being captured and tortured by some of the world’s foremost experts in the art, eroding that strong will until she eagerly led them straight into downtown Themiscyra.

It was all so clear to me. “Why didn’t these ‘gods’ just kill her then?” you might ask. Two reasons. First, the Amazons believed they were a “chosen people” and that among them Kynthia herself was a “child of destiny”. You couldn’t just go around killing people that you yourself had set up with such expectations.

Second, fights, insults, and abuse aside, Hippolyta loved her daughter more than life itself. If they had wanted to turn the Queen of the Amazons from a devoted thrall into a lifelong enemy, killing Kynthia, or even just allowing her to die, would be the surest way. Of course, they absolutely didn’t want that. So instead they made a virtue of necessity, and made Kynthia a demigod.

That’s what a demigod was, after all. Just a normal human that the sick bastards had tinkered with. Ares, Hestia, Hades, Heracles, Circe, they were all as human as you once. All were changed on the down low and given some “Child of the Gods” back story. I could read their minds. I know what I’m talking about.

As far as I knew at that time, they hadn’t made a new demigod in over a millennium. But on that fateful day they were doing it to Kynthia. Unlike all the others, though, they were not doing it “on the down low”. They were going to make Kynthia a demigoddess in front of Hippolyta and half the Amazon Queendom. This was gonna require all the pomp and circumstance of an imperial coronation.

Hera approached and solemnly bestowed upon Kynthia the strength of the Gods.

Hermes gifted her with the Gods’ own ability to ascend into the heavens, to fly.

Artemis gave her the senses of the Gods: eyesight keener than any eagle’s, hearing more acute than any wolf’s.

Athena gave her the shield of invulnerability that protects the Gods from harm.

And Aphrodite? Well, Aphrodite gave Kynthia her uniform ...

It’s okay, have your laugh; I can wait until you’re done ... Ready? ... I see ... No, no, take your time ... There. Done? Alright. The uniform—or I should say uniforms, for Aphrodite presented her with five sets of them—had the most subtle and complex power of them all.

Aside from providing top-notch eye candy, the uniform cast a glamour over her that identified her uniquely. When she was not wearing the uniform, no one who did not already know her identity could tell that she was the Gods’ chosen hero. Because of this, she had never had to expend any effort at all maintaining a secret identity. The uniform did it for her.

The “goddess” called it “the Gods’ own gift of revealed concealment”. These guys were good at “concealment”. They’d been hiding a whole city for over three thousand years.

The ceremony went on for several hours, from twilight almost to midnight. The Gods had to explain to Kynthia the ins and outs, the intricacies of each gift, including her loss of power under male enslavement, which, by the way, always confused me. I could only imagine they threw it into the mix to keep her from getting too cocky.

Having explained her gifts to her, they then made her demonstrate them for the assembled crowd. The demo, not so incidentally, gave her some valuable practice time.

Of course, there was no longer any hurry. Now there was plenty of time to get the injured pilot back to Crete. When it was finally time to go, the newly-minted superheroine easily lifted the awestruck man and carried him away, holding him close and tight, while her Amazon sisters cheered her on. Kynthia shook her head. She could only marvel at her Amazon sisters’ stunning about-face, from bloodthirsty mob to cheering throng. Another miraculous gift from the “Gods”.

Somewhere over Greece west of Athens the flight lieutenant found he could neither restrain nor hide his gallant reflex. To both of their surprise, his brave little soldier standing at attention was not an unwelcome companion. Passing over the Isthmus of Corinth she lowered the Shield of Athena, and other more conventional barriers to entry, both for the first time ever. Somewhere over Peloponnesia between Isthmia and Sparta, she lost that which can never be recovered but nonetheless was of no value to her. Somewhere over the Mediterranean Sea north of Crete, after more than twenty-four hundred years of full, rich life, she finally experienced la petite mort.

Later—minutes later? a lifetime later?—she set down her charge, her lover, in front of an astonished guard. She protected Simon, one last time, from the guard’s bullets. She watched Simon leave, seeing him for the last time, being carried away in the back of a small lorry. Soon, after a most unusual telephone conversation, another lorry arrived to carry her off in a different direction.

Four weeks later, while government scientists of ”Project Majestic” in Arizona were still endlessly poking her, prodding her, testing her, her RAF pilot lover died in the first wave of paratrooper assaults when the Nazis attacked Crete.

But meanwhile we were now approaching Themiscyra. Cindi was done with her melancholy memories. Cindi was focused on the present. Cindi was nervous. She knew she had to obey me, but she desperately needed to stay connected to me. The risk of losing me was driving her nuts. I reassured her as best I could; I really was confident that I could stay with her this time.

Looking through her eyes I saw the city laid out before me. This was no different than the other times. I was seeing what she saw, and her eyes were unaffected by the concealing glamour. She had decided to circle around and come in from the east to avoid “Stinky Pond”, a hot sulfur spring on the undeveloped southwest side of the city. Even from here we could see the tall, shimmery column of hot moist stench that rose from the spring. Yes, I was glad we went the other way.

Now we were at the boundary, and I felt it trying to rip me from her. She felt it too; she held her head and screamed. But she continued on. Her Lord demanded it of her. Soon the tension ebbed. I was still connected. I was inside one of my enemy’s most guarded secrets, for the first time since I found out about it.

«Are ... are you there, My Lord?»

«“Yes, baby bitch, it was a rough ride, but we made it. We hung onto each other. We fucking made it. I couldn’t have done it without you. Good girl!“»

She shivered with joy at my praise. «Good girl. Reward!» Suddenly she couldn’t wait until bedtime.

We had left before nine AM Arizona time, which put us in Themiscyra just before dusk. We flew low over the city quietly, but Amazons were nothing if not preternaturally alert. Many of her sisters looked up, and seeing the evening sun glinting against tiara, bustier, collar, and vambraces, they realized they were seeing their unofficial ambassador to “Man’s World”, the Chosen One of the Gods. They smiled and waved and spread the word.

Cindi took little notice until she saw a cop directing traffic. It was a busy intersection, and the traffic light was out. With Cynthia’s Artemis-sharpened vision the identity of the cop was unmistakable. Cindi swooped down behind her, grabbed her across her ample midsection, and spun her around like a rag doll.

“What the f—", the cop started, and then realized who it must be, ”Kynthia! Put me down, you whelp!” Of course, the actual words they spoke would no doubt be Greek to you. But your humble translator lives only to serve.

“Not until you say ‘please’, Kalliope!”

“Alright, alright. Please put me down, guttersnipe!“

There were only ten years’ difference in their ages out of literal thousands, but Kalliope still held it over her. She and Kalliope had been friends since they were both junior officers together. Kalliope was “Porthos” to Cindi’s “d’Artagnan”, an apt metaphor that had only been possible for her since she read Dumas’ first edition of his iconic classic a hundred fifty years or so ago. Alas, poor “Athos” and “Aramis” had both long since passed away, centuries before Alexandre Dumas was a gleam in his mother’s eye.

Traffic was snarled. Horns were honking. Cindi put her friend down. Kalliope straightened her tunic and tried to untangle the mess that had built up in only a few seconds. Greek drivers were not exactly the most courteous in the world. Amazons even less so. Over the roar of the traffic, Kalliope shouted, “So what brings you to town, Oh Chosen One?”

Raising her own voice to be heard, Cindi said, “You know, the usual. It’s been a while since I checked in. Thought I should. Why are you directing traffic? Surely you have enough seniority to be a senior detective at the very least.”

“I just got back a little over a year ago. I was up for city service again, and I intentionally picked something I could sleepwalk through. I was tired.”

“I bet! You’ll have to tell me about the Antarctic trip.”

“We pulled up a core almost four kilometers long, Kynthia. Four freaking kilometers! We hit liquid water that hasn’t touched atmosphere since the before hominids came down out of the trees. It was amazing.“

“Clearly this story needs more time to age if you can tell me the whole thing in one breath.”

“Meet me at Nike’s Wings, and I’ll show you how well this story has aged. First round on you.“

“I don’t know. I may not be able to make it tonight. You know how it is.”

“Yeah. I guess you better check in with the Mom-ster. The sooner the better. It’s the only hope I’ll have of seeing your adorable little mug at all while you’re here.”

Cindi’s face became a stoic mask. She took a fighting stance. “Foul varlet, Koala-pe! How dareth thou besmirch the name of thine own fair Queen. En Garde!“

“What, ho! Doth thou assault this officer of the law? I shall clap thee in irons, trollop!”

“Yeah. That’ll have to wait until later. I’ll bet she already knows I’m here.”

“Scoot. Scoot. You know where to find me.”

And then Cindi was in the air again, heading straight for “city hall”.

There were three tiers of gatekeepers in front of the “Mayor’s Office”, but Cindi was ushered through each without delay.

Well, at the first desk she had stopped herself, dropping off her rucksack. The functionary assured Cindi that she would see that her things made it to her room.

So after being waved through two more doors she finally entered her mother’s office. Her mother, Queen Hippolyta, was attired in a smart business suit that would have received an approving nod from Liz Warren or Condi Rice. She was already standing, smiling, walking around the desk to offer her daughter a hug.

“Well, it’s about time. Did you disrupt the whole city before coming to see me? Or just the one intersection?“

“I love you too, Mamá. I see the place is still standing.” Kynthia bowed and incanted formally, ”’You lead your people with wisdom and courage.’”

“Ha! Sometimes I wonder ... Oh, before I forget ... ‘Your service brings honor to us all’ ... My goodness, but you look wonderful. How could such beauty have come from me?“

“Well, according to you—”

“Shh. Just let me look at you for a bit.” Holding her daughter at arm’s length, she did just that with a beaming smile.

«“Well, this seems to be going pretty well.“»

«It always starts out like this, My Lord.»

Against my better judgment, I loosened my death grip on Cindi’s mind and risked a probe of Hippolyta. Oh no. Storm clouds on the horizon.

“So, Kynthia, what pulls my daughter away from the mission of the Gods?” That was a slap, believe it or not.

Cindi was already on the defensive, but tried to ignore it. Hippolyta thought her daughter never should have left the Queendom. Having her nose rubbed in it by the Gods themselves didn’t make Hippolyta any more happy about it either.

“Mamá, I ... I wish to return the tiara,” Cindi cut to the chase, removing the symbolic crown from her head. «Let’s get it over with.»

“I never gave you that tiara.“

“Yes, Mamá, I know. But the Gods don’t exactly visit me whenever I want. So I am turning it over to the next authority figure in that chain of command.“

Noticing now the collar padlocked around her daughter’s throat, Hippolyta was suddenly boiling with rage. Through clenched teeth she asked, “You wish to exchange a symbol of leadership ... for a symbol of-of slavery?“

“Yes, Mamá.”

“Whatever for?“

“I’m on love, Mamá.”

“Oh, Gods! Not another man like that ... that ...” She began waving her hand dismissively, “Sidney!“

Now Cindi went off track. “His name was Simon, Mother, Simon Tremaine. And he was a hero. A brave ’man’.“

“He didn’t seem so brave when he knocked down half of Themiscyra.”

“His plane crashed into one empty building, not half of town, and the only reason it did that was because the glamour made it look like he was coming down into an open field. We killed his whole crew; he did nothing to hurt us.“

“Even so, you should have left him to his fate. He was a man.“

“He was a warrior and a hero on the side of the angels, Mother.“

“Angels? Are you a Christian now?”

“It’s just a metaphor, Mother, and you damn well know it.”

“Watch your tone with me, ‘Chosen One’.”

“Aaarrgh. Why do we do this? Every. Single. Time. I don’t want to fight with you, Mamá!“

“Then don’t tell me you’re in love with a mortal. Show me that you have some brains, Kynthia.”

“I’m not in love with a mortal.“

“But you said—”

“I’m in love with a God.“

That stopped Hippolyta cold. This was serious business. These people were personally acquainted with their Gods. They didn’t bandy the term around lightly. Hippolyta paused and considered her next words ... carefully, “Not one of our Gods, I take it?“

“No, Mother. Not one of ours.”

More silence. “And this ... God ... loves you too?”

Cindi put a thumb under her collar and thrust it forward.

“He owns me. I love Him and worship Him, and He owns me and guides me.”

Hippolyta, possibly the fiercest woman in all of history, slumped back against her desk and hid the tears welling in her eyes. She despaired. She knew that look in her daughter’s eye. Hippolyta was defeated. All of her hopes and dreams for her daughter lay in ashes. Her daughter had found her true calling, her purpose in life. The life of a slave, not of a ruler. And that life was not in Themiscyra.

“I’ve waited so long. And now ... now it will never be.”

“Waited? Waited for what, Mother?“

“For you to take over, dammit! You’ve been ready for fifteen hundred years. Do you hate your own people so much?“

Cindi was in shock. She honestly had no idea that this was what they’d really been fighting about all those years. “Mother, I would never ... You are the Queen of the Amazons. You are the only leader we’ve ever had. Why would I ... How would I ever challenge your leadership? Mother, you’re my queen too. I’m loyal to you. I always have been.“

“Nonetheless, you are a better leader than I am. You have been since ... since before the fall of Rome. You could have come to me. You could have demanded your birthright. You could have, should have, been the one behind this desk.“

“And you would have, what, just retired?“

“Oh, my lovely daughter, my Kynthia. I would have given you anything you needed. I would have supported you in every way that I could.” But in her mind I do see her retiring. Leaving the Queendom. Seeking out ... Heracles? Revenge after more than three thousand years?

Oh, wait. In her mind she sees Heracles: the madman, the slave master, the rapist, the ... the what?

«“Baby bitch, Make her tell you about the slave years. Make her tell you about Heracles. Right now. You won’t regret it.“»

Kynthia couldn’t figure out a natural segue, and her Lord was so excited about what Hippolyta would reveal ... She just plowed straight into it. “Mamá, tell me about the slave years. Tell me about Heracles. Tell me everything.“

“What? Have the Gods given you the gift of clairvoyance now? I was just thinking about him.”

“Just tell me, Mamá.”

To tell you about Heracles (said Hippolyta), I have to tell you about me. About us. About the Amazons. I have to tell you the story that we older ones have never told you younger ones. The story of our shame.

Themiscyra was not always a friendly place for women. My birth name was not “Hippolyta”, it was “Semele”. It means “from the dirt” or “from the underworld” depending on the context. It wasn’t a very flattering name in either context, but all the girl children were given names like that.

And that wasn’t all. As soon as any girl child was old enough to toddle, she was ... I was, forced to wear a burden on my back. If there was actually something to be carried from one place to another, that was the burden. But if not, it was a bag of rocks. Always your burden was big enough that you could barely stand up under it, no matter how weak or how strong you were.

The burden worked like shackles, like fetters. Kynthia, you’ve been in the field for long marches, you know what it’s like to stand up in the morning with a heavy rucksack and not take it off until you lie down to sleep at night. After several days’ long march, what happens the first time you try to walk without your burden? ... That’s right. You fall flat on your face. You can’t find your balance, at least for a while.

Now imagine that you were never without your burden. That you wore it from waking to sleeping, from birth to death. You’d never be able to stand, much less walk, much less run away, without it. And with it you could barely walk at all.

Escape was out of the question. None of us ever even dared dream of it. With no hope of escape for us, the men could be as cruel as they liked. They treated us like animals. They even called us “pack horses”. Women were only good for endless labor until we were old enough to fuck, and then we were only good for two things. As soon as a child was weaned, boy or girl, it was taken from its mother and raised either to be a slave master or a slave.

As I was set to enter my eighteenth year, I could see that I would soon be put on the auction block to be bred like a prize cow. I prayed to the Gods night after night to deliver me from my fate, although I had no idea what other life a woman might lead.

And then, one night, the Gods visited me to answer my prayer. Hermes himself wrapped a glowing belt around my waist. He told me to take off my burden and stand. I knew that it was impossible, but I could not refuse a God. I stood without my burden. I walked without my burden. And then ... and then I ran. I ran to the forest. I was free.

Every day the men came looking for me, but the Gods hid me. Every day the Gods provided for me. Wild vegetables. Berries. Game that fell dead at my feet. Every day I tried to teach myself to fight. Remembering the lessons I had seen the men giving the boys as I bore my burdens from place to place.

I dreamed of freeing my sisters. I began to sneak back into the town at night. I would come to a woman, any woman. I would tell her that the Gods had taught me to stand, and that she could do the same too. She would rise holding my hands, first leaning on them, then touching them, then letting go and crying with joy, then holding my hand again as we ran off to the woods.

Within a month there were fifty of us living in the woods, sheltered from the eyes of men. That was when we went on the offensive, attacking with only stout sticks, freeing our sisters in broad daylight. They had better weapons. They had horses, real horses. They had generations of training. But they could not stand against us.

Their “pack horses” were disappearing in droves, and they knew that I was to blame. They called me “Hippolyta”, “she who frees the horses”. It was a curse on their lips, but it was a song on mine. Soon we all adopted new names, but my name, the new name that they gave me, was the one that struck fear in the hearts of the men of Themiscyra.

By the time we were three-hundred-strong, we were stealing their weapons and horses too. By the time we were four-hundred-strong we had driven them out of town altogether and reclaimed our homes, our lives.

The diaspora of the men of Themiscyra spread our fame far and wide. They not only gave me my name, they gave us all our collective name: “Amazon”, meaning “without a breast”.

You see, by the time we were ready to attack them force-against-force, we were all fully-armed and well-drilled in the use of all our weapons: broadsword, short sword, axe, short pike, and bow-and-arrows, all either on foot or on horseback.

It was our finest marks-woman, Xena (Gods. You know, Kynthia, how she hates that TV show. She’s short, fair-haired, and pale-skinned, with a kind and sweet disposition. Deadly aim, though, at any distance, with anything shot, thrown, or launched.) ... Anyway it was Xena who came up with the idea of strapping down one breast so that we could hold the bow closer for better aim.

The foolish men thought we had cut off the offending organ and named us as such. When we saw the fear that the idea engendered in our enemies though, we embraced it fully. Some even dribbled animal blood on the strapped-down side of their tunics before battle, just to unnerve the fools.

But what man (Hippolyta spat the word) can resist the opportunity to tame an uppity woman? The original men of the town had departed, but others came. First they came singly, then they came in pairs, then they came in raiding parties, then they came in armies.

We never lost a single woman in battle. Not one. And we held Themiscyra for over twenty years. None of us ever seemed to age, except the children. And they stopped aging when they reached their full adult stature. By the time we faced our ultimate test, we were just over five-hundred-strong. All adults. All strong and whole and able-bodied. All battle-tested warriors.

And that is when the news reached us. Some man, some king, had commanded the great hero Heracles to bring him the “Belt of Hippolyta”. Well, of course, many long years before, I had stopped wearing it except on ceremonial occasions. I certainly no longer needed it to help me stand.

But ... Heracles! His exploits were the stuff of legend. It would be our greatest test yet. We doubled our sentries and our night watch. Sure enough, after only a week, one of our advance scouts found Heracles encamped on the other side of the forest, with only twenty men!

We were overjoyed! It was simply not possible that such a small contingent could defeat us, even if the twenty-first was the “Destroyer of the Hydra”. But they never came any closer. After two weeks we began to wonder what their game was. We soon found out.

I was reading alone in my private chamber one afternoon, when I heard a noise. I turned to find Heracles standing in my doorway. His eyes were mad. He was tall and fierce and powerful. I have no idea how he made it past our sentries in broad daylight, but he was certainly not going to take me without a fight!

But he never struck, never even threatened me. Instead he knelt before me, he begged me to hear him out, to listen to his sad tale, to feel his tortured soul. Ignoring the belt hanging on the wall altogether, he begged me to accompany him back to his camp. There was something about him. I agreed. Somehow we slipped past the sentries undetected, he for the second time. I still don’t know how he did it.

In his tent he fed me a fabulous dinner that he prepared himself. We shared his finest wine. He told me his story. How in his madness he had killed his own family. How in his grief the Gods had punished him, demanding that he perform mighty heroic labors for an unworthy king.

He begged me not to let this come to a fight. He begged me to give him the belt, the symbol of my authority. I was moved. He was a tortured soul, a man of peace forced to fight over and over again. I was ready to assent, to give him my precious God-gifted belt, just to help ease his suffering.

Then suddenly the sound of hoofbeats, hundreds of hoofbeats, could be heard approaching the camp. You see, someone had somehow noticed my absence that day. They had come to the conclusion that Heracles had kidnapped me. Some say Hera herself spread that rumor, but no Amazon ever said that.

Soon the whole Amazon nation was surrounding the encampment. Five hundred surrounding twenty-one, twenty-two including myself. Heracles’ madness suddenly possessed him. He accused me of orchestrating an ambush, of attacking under a flag of truce.

I protested my innocence, but he didn’t listen. He grabbed me by the hair and dragged me out of the tent. His mad eyes seemed to glow. Somehow I couldn’t fight back. That scared me even more than Heracles’s sudden violence.

And then ... and then it was all over. All five hundred of my warriors, my Amazons, dismounted from their horses. Then they disarmed themselves, placing all their weapons on the ground in front of them. Then each one fell to the ground and curled up, each in a shivering, sobbing, and wailing ball. Heracles’ men unpacked huge cases of manacles, fetters, and chains.

They moved among my warriors, taking their proffered weapons, shackling and chaining their unresisting forms. They staked the entire Amazon Army to the ground, and then ... then they went to bed. Why not? They certainly no longer had anything to fear.

Heracles made sure that I had seen the whole thing. Then he ripped off all my clothes and threw them into the camp fire. He dragged me back to his tent, screaming my horror at the nightmare defeat of my unbeatable army. That night he used my virgin body, over and over, my most bitter defeat, my greatest shame ... I liked it.

Make no mistake! I feared for my life the whole time. I demanded he release me, but still I came. I pleaded for him to stop, but still I came. I shouted my rage and horror at the continued betrayal of my own body, but still I came. By morning I was riding on top of his prone form; I was fucking him, and still I came.

In the morning they lined up all of my warriors on their knees, fettered, manacled, and chained. Heracles did not even bother to bind me. I knew there was no escape. I was glued to his side, hugging his leg as I sunk to the ground naked and crying.

I watched aghast as the men began divvying up their spoils by rank. Heracles’ lieutenant first, then the next in command, and so on. Each one walking up and down the line, and choosing a woman. Then after the last man had chosen they began again, each choosing a second, then at third, then ...

In the end, Heracles’ top five men each had twenty-six slaves. The rest each had twenty-five. Heracles claimed only me, but in truth he used any woman he wanted. No one would deny the “Destroyer of the Amazons”.

He went away to take my magic belt to his king. In his absence, I became the twenty-sixth bitch of his number six man. When Heracles came back, which was often during his remaining labors, he would reclaim me from his underling.

It was the hell of old Themiscyra all over again. Even worse! The women, myself included, became servile cowards, each willing to do anything to curry favor with her master, each eagerly betraying her sisters to become “most favored” of her harem.

Each of us soon learned that by being a shameless and wanton fucktoy she could earn some respite from endless back-breaking labor. Some of us even fell in love with our captors.

I despaired daily. I cursed the Gods. I suppose it was a small mercy that none of us ever became pregnant, although our masters punished us for it, berating us as worthless, barren whores.

And then, just as suddenly as it had begun, it ended. Five years to the day after our capture. The occasion was Heracles’ return after his twelfth and final labor. The men had a great party in his honor. And, of course, we slaves were the party favors. Dancing, serving food and wine, fucking, enduring punishment and taunting for their amusement, kneeling awaiting our next command, all night long. As the dawn broke the men finally began to settle down. We assumed they were all drunk and about to pass out, but that is not what happened.

Heracles and his men, as if under some sort of spell, rose as one and dragged us all by our leash chains to the edge of Themiscyra. There, they released us from our chains and walked out of town. We could see them, in a daze, trying to figure out where they were, trying to find the city of slaves that should have been right in their plain sight. Eventually, all of them, even the great Heracles, grew frustrated, gave up the search, and left.

The last to leave was actually Heracles’ right-hand man, Theseus. Over time he had come to love his number-one slave, my sister Antiope, the very first woman chosen in that ill-fated lineup years before.

As it so happened, she returned his love. He stood at the edge of the city, unable to see it, and wailed for his Antiope, his lost love. We tried to restrain her, fearing that if she went to him that the magic bubble would pop and he would see us, and enslave us, all over again. But eventually she escaped us. Or we took pity on her and let her go; I can’t remember.

She ran to him. Our fears were unfounded. From his perspective Antiope just appeared out of thin air. They fell into each others’ arms. They smiled. They kissed. They departed together.

Years later I learned that they had married. However, she never aged. She never bore him a child. She watched him grow to hate her as he grew old and bald and fat and she stayed young and beautiful. Eventually he cast her out and she returned to her home, to her real home, to her sisters.

After Heracles and his men were forced to leave, the Gods continued to bless us. From time to time they would bring us young abused girls, girls who had been beaten and battered, but who nonetheless had not been broken by their abuse. The Gods had us raise them as Amazons.

They also saw to our needs. If we needed quarried stone or wood for building, someone brought it. If we needed fabrics, someone brought them. If our crops failed, someone brought food. They didn’t know they were in Themiscyra. They didn’t even realize they were dealing with women, often calling one or another of us “Sir”. If we tried to pay they insisted that we already had, and refused to take a “double payment”. We were hidden in plain sight, and blessed by the magic of the Gods.

It took us a long time to learn to trust each other again, but eventually we did. We regained our battle prowess, although it was not really needed. No one could find us to attack us.

Eventually, out of boredom some of us began to volunteer in other armies, especially if we believed their cause to be just. That is how your Aunt Penthesilea and many others came to die in the Trojan War. She wanted to defend the fair Helen from being forced to return to that loveless marriage with Menelaus, King of Sparta.

But anyway, that’s another story, and I am at the end of mine. We never age. Our numbers grow as the Gods augment them. And here we are today.

“And what happened to Heracles, Mamá?”

“Kynthia, I told you. He left.”

“And you never saw him again?”

“Um ...”

“Mother!“

“I’ll tell you, Kynthia. I ... I’ll tell you. But you must keep what I am about to say in the strictest confidence. You must!”

The Queen of the Amazons breathed a heavy sigh. “Many, many years later, centuries later, long after everyone thought Heracles was dead, the Gods helped him find his way back into the city. In the dead of night, he sneaked into my private chambers yet again.

“He bowed at my feet, crying, begging me to forgive him for the madness that caused him to enslave the Amazons, to enslave me. It had taken him years but he had finally reined in that madness, leaving him with regret after regret. However, so much time had passed. There was no way to make amends for so many of the wrongs he had committed.

“But he knew that the Amazons still existed, as young and strong as the day he had enslaved them. No one could find them though. Night after night he prayed to the Gods, until finally Aphrodite had mercy on him and guided his steps to Themiscyra. Kynthia ... He pleaded, he cried, he prostrated himself to me, begging me to forgive him.”

“And did you? Did you forgive him, Mother.”

Suddenly in Hippolyta’s eyes the love for her daughter shone like never before. “Oh, my darling, darling Kynthia. I did so much, much more than forgive him. As I recall it was some two thousand four hundred eighty-three years ago. About nine months before your birthday.”

Cindi was stunned. Cindi was aghast. Cindi was speechless. All the Amazons had believed Hippolyta’s story that the Gods had impregnated her. What would they do if they found out that their most hated enemy, the man who had enslaved them, was the father of the beloved Princess, the so-called “Chosen of the Gods”?

She knew that this was a secret that she would have to carry to her grave, a secret that could unravel the whole Queendom. But that was not the foremost thought in her mind.

“I have a father.”

“Yes. You have a father, and your name has a meaning. Heracles told me he had been praying on holy Mount Kynthos when Aphrodite answered him and brought him to me. You were the fruit of the Gods’ answer to his prayer, so naming you ‘Kynthia’ seemed like proper tribute. But, Kynthia, no one can ever know but the two of us. Not your friends. Not your ‘God’. Not Heracles himself.“

“Yes, Mamá. I understand. I do. No one will ever know. But ... Mamá? I have a secret too ... about Heracles.”

“What?”

“I, ah, met Heracles, by accident, about sixty years ago. But he was so different than the wild man depicted in our art. He was ... sophisticated ... urbane even. He was certainly powerful, but he didn’t seem mad.”

“I guess that makes sense,” said the Queen, “Even as his slave, I learned that he loved fine food, fine wine, fine craftsmanship. I could see him as that sort of man in this modern world.”

“But there’s more, Mamá. He, uh, he knows I’m his daughter. I revealed to him my name, title, and parentage. It always seems to put ancient Greek miscreants off guard. But knowing my name and yours, he guessed my age. I didn’t know the significance at the time. But now I can see ...”

“So he knows. How did he take it? The news.”

“He seemed upset, stunned really. You have to understand, Mother, that I am just now seeing the whole strange encounter in a new light. He got away from me as fast as he could. But not without first attempting to impart some fatherly advice.”

“Yes,” said Hippolyta acidly, “He seems to be the master of the quick exit. When I awoke the morning after our lovemaking, he was gone.”

“Mamá ... He didn’t stay? Not even a little while?”

Hippolyta’s shoulders shivered. She was crying openly now. She shook her head sadly. “No. And ... and he never came back.”

They fell into each other’s arms. They cried. After almost twenty-five hundred years, they finally understood each other.