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The Bath Chambers were aglow with the gentle flicker of braziers, their low amber light casting soft-moving shadows along the stone walls, which here were dressed with polished woods, dark with age and fragrant with oil. The flickering glow played across the ripples of steam rising from the waters, gilding the mist in molten gold. Every breath was full of warmth and the rich, sweet scent of blossoms – water lilies, thyme, creamy roses – their petals drifting lazily on the surface of the water like offerings to some forgotten goddess.
Or the goddess-like being floating in their waters.
Helen tilted her head back slightly, closing her eyes for a moment, letting the scented heat sink into her skin, her hair damp and curling at her nape like threads of a pale cloud. Somewhere outside, Uncle Icarius’ palace stirred with preparations. The courtyards and feasting halls would soon fill with noble guests for the festival of Hera Gamēstόlos, though the true celebration would be for her – for Beloved Penelope.
For Lacedaemon’s Hidden Pearl.
Helen opened her eyes again, her gaze drifting across the ripples caught like a butterfly to the scent of the sweetest flower it had come by.
Penelope floated there, the beautiful curves of her form half-submerged, milky skin glowing beneath the translucent glaze of the waters. Her hair, those golden curls usually pinned beneath veils and circlets, now hung loose and heavy, the damp ringlets clinging to the elegant slope of her throat, the swell of her breasts just visible above the surface that Helen’s hands ached to palm and hold and kiss. The droplets beaded and slid down her collarbones like liquid pearls, catching light in flashes.
She blinked at Helen, lashes thick and damp, eyes like sunlit waves – those astonishing sea-green eyes that seemed always to hold some secret depth, some playful yet unspoken thought shimmering just out of reach.
A smile bloomed over her those plump kissable lips, soft and knowing.
She extended her hand, fingers fair and fine, wrist delicate as if shaped from Cypriot Alabaster.
“Helen.”
Just her name – spoken like a gift.
The suitors would come in their droves, with promises of kingdoms, of treasures, of safe harbours.
But none of them would ever see this.
None of them would see the red blush rising high on her cheeks when she held Helen’s gaze. None of them would hear the slight catch in her breath when Helen took that offered hand and stepped closer through the perfumed waters, letting the petals gather around them both like silent witnesses.
Witnesses to what Helen?
What I most desire perhaps.
A single step carried Helen closer, water folding around her hips, her belly, and then the rise of her breasts. Close enough now to see the scales scattered like faint stars across Penelope’s shoulders. Close enough to feel the trembling in the fingers she held.
Penelope’s eyes lowered briefly, golden lashes fanning over fair cheeks, then lifted again with quiet resolve.
“You are staring,” she teased.
Helen smiled, thunder and mischief in her blue gaze. “I cannot help myself,” she murmured. “You look akin to something sculpted by Morpho Aphrodite herself.”
Penelope’s breath hitched softly, chest rising, nearly bare beneath the glassy surface of the water, little fabric holding so much from her yearning gaze.
She smiled lazily at it, at the flush of pink spreading across Penelope’s cheeks like a secret blooming in the warm dark. Every inch of her, Helen thought, utterly spellbound. Every pale curve, every subtle movement, each trembling breath – mesmerising.
How could mortal men claim to be worthy of her when they knew nothing of this? Of her?
Who in the world could compare to Penelope’s beauty?
I could. I am her only equal. The only one perfectly made for her.
Helen lifted their joined hands, the water slipping from their entwined fingers, jewelled droplets running down their wrists. Slowly – deliberately – she pressed her lips to the delicate skin just above Penelope’s pulse, warm and faintly damp, tasting faintly of flower oils.
The sweetness of her scent was dizzying – water lilies floating in the rivers, soft and sharp at once, a scent that felt secret, something only a lover should be allowed to know. Something meant for the spaces behind closed doors, whispered into linen sheets.
Something only she should be aware of.
Penelope’s breath trembled, a delicate tremor, her parted lips glimmering with the faintest sheen of moisture.
Helen did not stop at the wrist.
Another kiss, just a little higher, open-mouthed now, her lips soft and deliberate. She tasted her way up the gentle curve of Penelope’s forearm, slow, indulgent, savouring the heat that bloomed beneath her mouth. Penelope was always so cold, yet under her touch she burned. Kiss after kiss, like soft petals pressed by a loyal devotee onto the altar of the goddess she adored above all, so Helen moved upward along that pale, supple flesh.
And then – the scales. Iridescent, a gentle sea green, not even entirely visible unless the light struck them just right, shimmering faintly beneath the water’s glaze like starlight caught beneath skin. Nymph-blood.
Helen’s lips found them, brushing across the scattered soft, glimmering scales on the curve of Penelope’s shoulder, and the sound it pulled from her younger’s throat made Helen’s knees feel weak.
A sharp gasp – a soft, choked whimper–”Helen…” breathed out on a moan, raw and broken with want.
I will have to watch as another man takes this from me – Penelope’s sweet noises, the glimmer of her eyes, all of it.
Helen’s whole body shuddered at it, a rush of heat spreading beneath her skin, curling through her belly like the gathering of a storm. She pressed another kiss there, firmer this time, tongue slipping out to taste the strange, silken texture of those shimmering marks, thrilling at the way Penelope writhed faintly beneath her mouth, a tremor running down her arms and back, her head tipping just slightly, offering more of herself up like an offering.
Sensitive, then.
Helen smiled against her skin. My hidden pearl.
The knowledge gave her a kind of wicked delight. All those kings and warriors would come bearing swords and jewels, but none of them would ever know this: the secret softness of Penelope’s gasps, the ache and wanting in the way she said her name – not like a greeting now, but like a plea.
“Helen please…”
None of them would be able to please her and bring her to fruition the way she could.
She drew back just slightly, only so to see and savour the glazed, hungry shine in Penelope’s sea-green eyes. The sight of that want written so clearly on her perfect face made Helen’s whole-body hum with satisfaction, like strings drawn taut on a lyre about to sing.
“You are trembling,” Helen whispered, lips brushing against Penelope’s damp skin, drinking in the sweet, maddening scent of her. “Do you wish for me to stop?”
A foolish question, really. Because even as she spoke it, she knew the truth – and she spoke again before Sweet Penelope could answer, her voice rough with hunger, with helpless honesty:
“No. Forgive me, but I cannot stop, even if you begged me to. You are so…”
Intoxicating.
Penelope’s breath caught, her sea-green eyes darkening with something molten and tender and wild all at once. And then – oh – she moved, slowly, deliberately, rising through the perfumed waters like something divine emerging from the depths.
Helen could only watch, barely breathing, as Penelope climbed over her lap, bare thighs parting the water, straddling her with a slow, exquisite grace that made Helen’s mouth go dry. The water lapped sensuously around them, petals swirling around the edges of their now joined bodies.
Penelope leaned in, golden curls heavy and wet, drops clinging to her lashes like jewels. She pressed her lips near Helen’s ear, her voice barely more than breath:
“I do not wish for you to ever stop.”
That whisper, sweet and sinful, undid something deep inside Helen, a part of her unravelling like silk torn by greedy fingers. Her arms wrapped around Penelope’s waist, possessive and worshipful all at once, fingertips brushing over something cool, delicate, slipping against her golden skin.
A pearl chain.
Helen’s breath shuddered as her fingers traced the little thing of smooth, gleaming pearls wrapped around Penelope’s waist – the contrast of the cool pearls against the heat of Penelope’s bare skin made her dizzy.
And then – gods – the feel of Penelope’s breasts pressing flush against her own, slick with moisture, skin against skin, soft curves rubbing together as Penelope shifted slightly in her lap. Helen let out a soft, raw moan, unable to hide it, unable to care. The sensation was maddening, too much and not enough, all at once.
Helen lowered her mouth to the graceful curve of Penelope’s throat, teeth grazing, tasting salt, tasting sweetness. “If I had been born a man,” she murmured, her voice dark and low against Penelope’s delicate skin, “I would have taken you for my wife long ago.”
Penelope’s breath came fast and shallow then, her words evidently having stirred something within her younger. Her glowing eyes half-lidded with wanting – but still, still there was that playful spark beneath her lashes, that clever, daring heart that always rose to meet Helen’s own wildness.
“Oh, really?” she breathed, teasing, though her voice trembled. “What would you have done then, my Helen?”
Helen’s lips curled against Penelope’s damp skin in a slow, wicked smile. Challenge was something she could never resist – especially not from Penelope, not when she sat astride her lap like this, water sliding between them, soft curves pressed together, the maddening feel of damp fabric barely separating the slick heat between their thighs.
She shifted slightly beneath Penelope, one hand sliding up her back and untying the knot that held her strophic in place, fingers splaying across heated skin and curling into those golden, damp curls at the nape of her neck.
“What would I have done?” she echoed softly.
Then she leaned in, lips brushing against the delicate shell of Penelope’s ear, warm breath curling over sensitive skin, before she gently caught the webbed lobe between her teeth, nibbling just enough to make Penelope gasp and shift in her arms.
“I would have taken you for wife the moment you came of marriage age,” she murmured, her voice dark silk, every word tasting of hunger and promise. “No waiting. No games. No suitors.”
Another soft bite, this time just behind Penelope’s ear, before she trailed slow, claiming kisses down the elegant column of her neck, swiping her tongue over those scattered scales, leaving behind faint, wet impressions like marks of ownership, as if she could brand her name and self into Penelope with mouth alone.
Would that she could. Would that she could leave her mark on Penelope like a babe leaves its mark on the mother that bore them. Then any man who would take Penelope to his house – though in the depths of her heart she already knew who that wretched creature would be – he would know that she has already ravished his bride.
Odysseus would know.
“Neither your father… nor mine…” Kiss. Bite. Kiss. “Would have been able to stop me. Would have been able to separate you from me.”
Her free hand slid lower, finding the pearl chain again at Penelope’s waist, looping one cool strand between her fingers like a symbol of possession, something delicate wrapped around something utterly precious.
Hers.
Penelope was hers.
“And I would have put a child in you,” Helen whispered against the racing pulse at Penelope’s throat, “so that no one would have dared try to take you from me.”
The sound that spilled from Penelope then was not gentle. It was a moan – ragged, broken, needy – echoing softly against the close stone and wood of the bath chamber, a desperate sound torn from the chest of the girl Helen had longed and lusted after for so long.
Precious Penelope was but a few years younger to her. She would have been the perfect groom – sired by the God-king, raised by Penelope’s own Uncle, a Prince of Lacedaemon who would have made Penelope Queen. The gods were cruel, for denying her this.
Slowly, torturously, Penelope shifted her hips forward, grinding the damp, thin fabric of her skirts against Helen’s own folds, seeking friction, seeking more, the curve of her now bare breasts sliding against Helen’s with every shallow breath.
Helen’s own head tipped back slightly, a raw gasp tearing from her throat at the exquisite contact, lightning singing down her spine. Her grip on Penelope’s waist tightened possessively, fingers curling over the slick curve of her hip.
“Look at you,” Helen rasped, eyes half-lidded, thunder-blue gaze burning into Penelope’s flushed, beautiful face. “You would have been mine. You are mine.”
Penelope’s lips parted in a trembling moan, her voice spilling out in breathless fragments between the soft gasps curling from her throat. And in those eyes – those wild, glimmering sea-green depths – there was no hesitation.
“Yes…” The word came barely audible, but it shattered Helen’s fragile control like armour beneath a divinely made spear. “Yours… I have always been yours.”
Of course she is mine. She always has been.
It was a quiet, furious knowing that thrummed like a second heartbeat beneath Helen’s golden skin. From the earliest of days, before they were what they are now, before men and their lecherous eyes fell upon them, it had always been Penelope and Helen. A little wild thing her Clever Penelope had been, golden curls tangled from running through olive groves, rose like lips always forming her name with that soft, breathless wonder:
Helen! Helen, wait for me!
It had always been Helen that Penelope looked for first in the feast halls, Helen whose laughter could draw that playful mischievous smile from her lips so quickly, Helen who taught her the shape of longing before either of them had the words to name it.
And it was Helen who had taken her first kiss – not Odysseus, nor some other charming prince or king or warlord, but her. One sunstruck afternoon beneath the trailing vines in the gardens of her father’s palace, when Penelope was barely more than a girl but already so alluring, already glowing with that soft loveliness. The kiss had been uncertain, sweet – but the look afterward, that bright flush, the wide sea-green gaze – that would belong to her alone, no one else.
Helen’s claim had been first, quieter perhaps, but real. It echoed now, years later, in the trembling gasp of Penelope’s voice.
Odysseus would never have that first kiss. He would never have the first look of wonder, the first soft sigh of surrender.
It was Helen who resided longest in Penelope’s heart, Helen who knew the way her breath hitched when touched along the small of her back, Helen who knew just how to pleasure Penelope best.
Helen knew her, the shape of her, the ache of her. Every inch of her.
Penelope was hers.
Had always been hers.
She felt her composure abandon her completely then, the hunger she had so long kept chained slipping free, as fierce and inevitable as the tides drawn by the pull of Lady Selene.
Helen bent her head without thought, her lips trailed across the gentle curve of Penelope's breast, consuming, like a woman starved of sweetness finally permitted her first taste of ambrosia.
Every brush of skin against skin sent an answering shudder spiralling down Helen's spine. The softness, the scent, the way Penelope's breath hitched and fell apart like waves breaking upon the shore – Helen wanted to drown in it, to be swept utterly under.
Her tongue traced the swell of Penelope’s breast in slow, gentle circles, until she reached the aching peak and took it into her mouth, suckling with worshipful hunger, lips and teeth gentle, coaxing.
Penelope gasped, her fingers tangling helplessly in Helen's hair, silver-gold strands slipping through her hands like sun-warmed silk. Her thighs tightened around Helen’s hips, breathless cries spilling from her throat like prayer.
“Helen…”
It was a plea, a benediction, a surrender.
Helen so loved it when Penelope surrendered to her.
It was why she could not stop herself. She bit at Penelope’s breasts as though she could consume her, could make Penelope a part of herself. The soft flesh was warm beneath her lips, salt and rose and something uniquely Penelope, something that made her ache. Helen’s teeth grazed, not hard enough to bruise – but enough to draw another of those delicious, broken moans from Penelope’s lips.
Penelope’s head fell back, golden curls spilling like sunlight over her shoulders, her hips shifting again in a slow, desperate roll that sent fresh waves of aching pleasure through them both.
She nuzzled lower, mouthing at the curve beneath the swell, tongue darting out to trace slow, patterns against damp skin.
“Mine,” Helen murmured against her skin, the word vibrating softly, a secret uttered into the hush between breaths. “Always mine.”
Penelope whimpered – a sweet sound, beautiful and desperate – arching into her mouth, offering more, always offering more. The subtle shift of those wide hips, the trembling in her thighs, the heady press of her breasts against her cheeks – everything in her body spoke of surrender and desire.
It pleased her undoubtingly – she was the older after all, it was good for Sweet Penelope to mind her respects even here and now.
Helen let her hands wander as if reacquainting herself with something beloved yet long denied. She traced the delicate lines of Penelope’s ribs, the elegant curve of her small waist, her fingers curling once again around the cool smoothness of the pearl chain that adorned her hips. A symbol of beauty, of refinement – and now, in Helen’s hands, of possession.
She pulled at it, letting the pearls clink and slip between her fingers before tracing them lower, to where Penelope's wet skirts clung like a second skin.
“Let me,” Helen whispered, eyes flicking up to meet Penelope's gaze – shining, wide with heat and trust. “Let me have you.”
There was no fear in Penelope's eyes, no hesitation. Only the most exquisite kind of surrender.
“You already do,” she whispered, her voice like the hush of waves in moonlight. “You always have.”
Helen kissed her again then – not on the mouth, but over her heart, where it pounded hard beneath skin flushed rose-pink from pleasure and longing. And then she moved, slowly, sensually, guiding Penelope back into the water with her, holding her so their bodies stayed joined, even as the bath cradled them anew.
Water curled around them like silk, petals drifting lazily between their thighs. Helen slid her hands down, beneath the fabric, seeking bare skin with eager hands, until her fingers found the slick heat between Penelope's thighs. She swallowed the moan that shuddered from Penelope's mouth with her own, pressing their lips together, deep and desperate, tongues tangling like they were trying to memorize each other, taste every moment they would lose together soon.
The ache was unbearable, the storm within her rising with every beat of her heart.
Penelope wanted this. Wanted her. Had always wanted her.
“I would have made you mine before the whole of Lacedaemon,” Helen whispered fiercely against her skin, her voice raw with wanting and with something deeper, something nearer to grief. “Before all the kings, before your father, before the gods themselves. I would have claimed you before all and killed all who dared to bid on you – mine, mine, mine.”
She did not say instead I will have to watch another take you. She did not say Laertiades. She did not have to. The bitterness of that truth curled behind her words like thunder waiting in distant mountains, unshed but gathering.
Penelope’s hands came up, threading into Helen’s cloud-soft curls, her touch delicate, eager, like she feared Helen might disappear if she let go.
“I do not want anyone else,” Penelope whispered hoarsely. “I only want–”
You.
Helen captured her lips before she could say it, kissing her hard, their tongues entangling with each other, sucking in the sweet taste of honey and claiming the words before they could fall into the world.
Liar.
She remembered the sweet little girl Penelope had been, and the day she had given away her lips to Helen forevermore.
The gardens of Uncle Icarius' palace – wild with scent and spring heat – had been their sanctuary. There, beneath the shelter of flowering myrtle and tall hedges of oleander, they had stolen hours, weaving crowns of flowers and giggling like the children they still were. Helen could still remember the press of sunlight filtering through the leaves, how it dappled Penelope’s golden curls like firelight, how her skin glowed as if kissed by some inner radiance.
They had been playing then – rubbing crushed petals along each other’s cheeks and wrists, laughing at the silly smears of colour. Penelope had fallen on top of her in a tumble of laughter, soft and warm and sun-drenched. Helen had stilled beneath her, her breath catching not from surprise, but from something else. Something strange. Something other.
She remembered the weight of Penelope’s body across her own, light yet so real, the shift of her then small hips, the tangle of their limbs in the tall grass. She had stared up into those sea-green eyes, wide and innocent and blinking with something that might have been confusion… or something unnamed. Penelope had gone quiet, lips parted, a question caught behind them.
And Helen – without knowing how or why or what it would mean – had lifted her head and kissed her.
It had been soft, sweet, the press of lips-to-lips light as air, but it had struck through her like lightning. The heat of it. The wrongness that felt righter than anything she had ever known. She remembered the faint tremble in her own hands, the way her heart had thundered as though the sky itself had cracked open.
It must have been but a few moments, but it had felt like an eternity.
When she had pulled back, Penelope’s eyes were huge – glowing, as she had been breathless, her sweet cheeks a bright red. Her mouth had parted as if to speak, but only Helen’s name had come, soft and broken: “Helen…”
And Helen, helpless before it, had kissed her again.
This time deeper.
With purpose.
Her tongue had slipped into Penelope’s mouth, coaxing, tasting, claiming. She hadn’t understood what she was doing exactly, only that she needed more – that this thing between them was the only thing in the world that felt real.
And Penelope had not pulled away. She had clung tighter.
She had answered.
Just as she did now.
Her eyes closed, her breaths coming in short, sweet yet loud pants that echoed through the steam-filled air. Helen's fingers danced over the softness of Penelope's folds.
Penelope's eyes grew wide with a mix of surprise and lust as Helen's slid two of her fingers into her folds, exploring and teasing with an experienced touch. The water around them felt as though it grew warmer with their shared passion. With a gentle sigh, Penelope gave in to the sensations Helen put her through, her body moving instinctively against Helen's hand. Her breaths grew shallower, and Helen could feel her legs quiver.
Her eyes never left Penelope's as she moved her fingers in a rhythm that seemed to match the beating of Penelope's heart. Each stroke seemed to send a wave of pleasure through her, making her back arch and her breasts rise and fall with every gasp.
Her voice grew stronger as the pleasure Helen inflicted upon her grew more and more intense. Helen's thumb circled her little pearl, no doubt sending even more waves of ecstasy through her body. Penelope's thighs clenched around her hand, and Helen could feel Penelope's wetness coating her fingers, even through the waters.
It made her want to lose her mind.
Helen's command had left no room for resistance then. "Look at me," she said, her voice not loud, but weighted with absolute authority. Sweet Penelope obeyed, eyes fluttering open and finding Helen’s gaze, wide and shimmering with need.
"Do you like it?" Helen whispered, her words threading through the air like silk.
"Yes," Penelope gasped, her body trembling, lips parted as she struggled to breathe through the waves of sensation. "I like... it– it very much."
Helen's smile deepened, wicked and loving all at once. Her fingers continued their relentless rhythm, stroking, pressing, curling just so. Then, deliberately, she slid in a third finger, stretching Penelope wider. The reaction was immediate – Penelope cried out, her back arching, her thighs trembling around Helen's hips.
The bath water shuddered with her movements, petals scattering as her body undulated beneath Helen’s touch. Helen's free hand wrapped tightly around Penelope’s waist, anchoring her, guiding her, holding her as she rode the waves of pleasure.
“AH! Helen!”
Her climax came crashing over her like a breaking wave, body trembling violently, water churning beneath them. Her mouth was open in a wordless cry, eyes wide and dazzled, as she came undone in Helen's arms. The sounds of her pleasure echoed against the stone, every shuddering breath a hymn.
Helen watched, breath caught in her own throat, overwhelmed by the sight of Penelope's unhidden bliss. It was beautiful. Devastating. Her fingers slowed, gentled, easing Penelope down from that impossible height.
When the last of the tremors had faded, Penelope collapsed against her, boneless and panting, her cheek pressed to the curve of Helen’s neck.
Helen held her close, both arms wrapped tightly around her now, heart thudding in quiet triumph and reverence. She pressed soft kisses to Penelope’s temple, to her hair, to the curve of her shoulder, murmuring wordless comforts.
"You were perfect," she whispered, voice a breath against wet skin. "So perfect."
Helen moved then, just slightly, enough to tip them into a slow recline, keeping Penelope in her arms, holding her as one might cradle a miracle. She brushed wet curls away from her beloved's cheek, watching as her lashes fluttered, her breath slowly evening out, attempting to memorise all of this.
And then, Penelope stirred gently in her arms, pressing closer, the curve of her soft breast nestling against Helen's breast. Her skin still trembled with the fading echoes of pleasure, but her eyes were calm now – dreamy and warm, gazing up at Helen as if she were the only star in the night sky.
“Stay with me,” Penelope whispered, fingertips brushing lightly along Helen's jaw, tracing the strong line down to her throat. “Just a little longer.”
“Forever,” Helen breathed, her voice thick with promise and something deeper, something tender and breaking. I do not wish to lose you to another. She leaned in, brushing her lips over Penelope's brow, the tip of her nose, her cheek, until at last she kissed her again, slow and deep, as if time itself would still for them.
Their kiss turned softer, more languid now, the desperation cooled to something even more intimate – a kind of knowing that passed between them with every breath they shared. Helen cradled Penelope as if she were a precious treasure hard won, her hands never still: stroking golden curls, trailing lazy patterns along her back, tracing the delicate path of water droplets down her spine.
Penelope's leg curled around Helen's hip as if to anchor them there, skin slick against skin. Her lips parted with a soft sigh, and Helen could feel her body melt once again into hers, their forms fitting together like puzzle pieces long parted but never forgotten.
“You should have stolen me,” Penelope murmured against Helen's mouth, a teasing lilt beneath the haze of passion. “Run away with me before the suitors came.”
Helen laughed, breathless and low, the sound wrapping around them like warmth. “I would have carried you across the seas myself. We could have gone as far as the Eastern empire, or Aegyptos even.”
“Then we might never have had to part,” Penelope whispered, voice soft as silk soaked in longing.
Helen touched her brow to hers, hands cupping her face. “We would have made our own kingdom,” she said. “One the gods themselves would envy.”
Penelope smiled then, a little sadly, and Helen kissed the corners of her mouth, trying to banish the shadow there. Her hands wandered again, now in a slow exploration: she caressed the dip of her waist, the swell of her hips, the softness of her inner thigh. Every inch of her beloved was a world she longed to know again and again and again.
“You are perfect,” she murmured, lips brushing against Penelope's temple. “My goddess. My queen.”
“Yours,” Penelope echoed once more, voice fervent. “Only yours.”
Helen kissed her again, and again, tasting the salt of tears that neither of them had shed aloud. In the stillness, their bodies rocked gently in the water, limbs entangled, hearts thudding in quiet rhythm.
Outside, the world would march on. Penelope's marriage awaited.
But here, in the warm hush of the bath chamber, surrounded by each other as they were, it was as if such a thing did not even exist.
For a moment longer, they were only Helen and Penelope.
The rest could wait.