It had come as surprise when, rather then escorting her down into the endless dungeon torture chambers that lay beneath
the palace, Ereshkigal's troll guards instead escorted Phoebe across the palace grounds until they reached an ancient
temple carved into the rocky precipice of the palace's plateau. Entering the temple, the troll's chained Phoebe between
the chamber's two large wooden posts and removed the heavy cover stone from beneath her widely stretched legs before departing.
Standing alone in the ancient temple, Phoebe glanced nervously down into the darkened pit between her legs. The blood red orb that served as the Mesopotamian Underworld's sun was already starting to set into the endless smoke filled abyss that surrounded the high plateau upon which the death goddess Ereshkigal's palace stood. And as one of Ereshkigal's willing pleasure slaves, Phoebe all too painfully understood the kind of unspeakable horrors that would inevitably come with the darkness of night.
Glancing back down into the darkened depths of the open pit beneath her Phoebe tried not to think about what kind of obscene horror might already be rising from the dark depths to brutally butcher her for the sadistic amusement of the death goddess Ereshkigal.
Once, long ago, in that brief and barely recallable time before she'd made her Faustian bargain with Ereshkigal's ghostly envoy, Phoebe had loved to read tales of fantasy and horror. Tales filled with the imagery of beautiful maidens subjected to the most hideous of perils, some who died screaming in unbearable agony, while others rescued by handsome knights.
Phoebe smiled sadly at the thought of a handsome knight riding to her rescue. She knew that here in the perilous depths of the Mesopotamian Underworld there were no handsome knights, only unspeakable horror and death. That here in the Mesopotamian Underworld, this place beyond the reach of time and space, the death goddess Ereshkigal commanded every aspect of Phoebe's eternal existence. That Phoebe and the countless other women serving for all eternity as Ereshkigal's willing pleasure slaves were forever locked into the Underworld's endless cycle of libertine excess, days of unimaginable pleasure, nights of unspeakable torture and death, only to die and be reborn back into this endless cycle of horror, day after day for all eternity.
Still, Phoebe had to admit, that over the centuries, she'd met fiends and creatures of legend and myth alike. And who but one of Ereshkigal's willing pleasure slaves could ever want the chance to have her heart cut out by a Aztec high priest, to be disembowel on a unicorn's razor sharp horn, to discover for herself just how sharp Jack the Ripper kept his knives, to experience first hand what it's like to be raped to death by a Minotaur. And what masochist hasn't imagined spending a night stretched upon the rack by the skillful merciless hands of Torquemada, the Grand Inquisitor of the Spanish Inquisition or to discover for herself just how Vlad, the impaler came to earn his diabolically fiendish reputation.
Phoebe was still smiling, thoughts of the last night she'd spent dying in Torquemada's Mesopotamian Underworld torture chamber, the unrelenting agony of the rack, the unspeakable torment of those glowing irons that seared her flesh, the smell of her skin burning as red-hot pinchers brutally crushed her nipples, her clit. That final terrifying moment when the mounting tension of the rack begins to rip her tautly stretched body apart.
It wasn't until Phoebe felt that first tentacle sliding across her stocking clad ankle and looked down that she started to scream. And once again Phoebe discovered that in the perilous depths of the Mesopotamian Underworld there were no handsome knights, only unspeakable horror and death.