The Thracian Goddess

The Thracian Goddess

thracian princess diana

Vulcan has kindly translated this tale into German: Die thrakische Göttin


Diana Filkova sighed. Not long now. Just bear with it and all will be ok.

She was with her partner, the twenty-years-her-senior Mark Vogel. They’d been an item for two years now, ever since she met him at a reception for prospective historians organised by her university. She was looking for a summer placement at the time and they had just clicked. He was handsome, funny, charming and absolutely loaded. He also offered her a job. “My job is in tech, but I’ve long had a passion for history. I live on the Greek Island of Draxos and I’m sponsoring a dig there of an ancient Greek temple complex. You seem like just the sort of girl we could do with on-site. Are you interested?”

Interested? Of course she was! The wages he were offering were exorbitant compared with what she could get in Bulgaria and the opportunity sounded like a golden one to improve her CV. So, she signed up and, at dinner that night, also signed up to a whole lot more.

She didn’t love Mark, of course. Why, he was old enough to be her dad! But he was ok to get along with, extremely generous with his cash and, besides, she didn’t have a boyfriend as it was. Plus he lived in a vast, luxurious mansion on a private island just off the coast of Draxos, with full spa facilities, a swimming pool and balconies affording gorgeous views of the Aegean. Her plan was a simple one: stay with him until she’d finished uni, saving all the gifts and fancies he gave her and then, when she graduated, use all of them to pay for her MA, something she could never afford otherwise.

The MA that she’d signed up for that coming September. Not that she’d told Mark of course; after all, why waste the holidays alone? No, she would tell him next week in a note after she had left.

But sometimes she wished that the days would roll on by far quicker than they did. He was beginning to bore her and his pawing at her body in bed was now annoying. Plus, he could get so obsessive about things; like today for example. He had insisted that they jet over to Athens to do some shopping. But it wasn’t the kind of shopping that she enjoyed, instead it was about buying household decorations. Yawn! Still, needs must.

When they arrived in the city, they took a taxi to the studio of one Yiorgos Hatziastros, a potter of some renown who was, apparently, a friend of Mark’s. “He’s done work for me in the past and it’s always been of the highest standard,” said Mark. Diana looked out of the window.

At the studio, the two men greeted one another like long-lost brothers. Mark then introduced Diana and, to her surprise, made an announcement: “I want to buy my darling something really special, not just the usual trinket, but something of artistic as well as monetary value, to symbolise our deep love for one another. She is training to become an archaeologist and so I thought, why not have Yiorgos make me a unique, personalised pot in the Ancient Greek tradition?”

At these words Diana’s heart melted. At the reply from Yiorgos, it nearly went into overdrive.

“That is fine, of course my friend, but they do not come cheap. My Ancient Greek-style work starts at 10,000 euros a piece.”

10,000 euros! That was the entire cost of the MA!

“The price is not a factor, only the quality. As you can see, she is my Greek goddess and so why not make her a Greek vase.”

“Forgive me for contradicting you,” said Yiorgos, “but I sense that the young lady is not Greek. Balkan, maybe, but Greek, no.”

“That is right, I am Bulgarian, from Plovdiv.”

“Then may I make a suggestion. Since the lady is not Greek, maybe a Greek vase is inappropriate, but you are Bulgarian, yes, and the Bulgarians are the descendents, some say, of the Ancient Thracians, an equally civilised people. So why not try a Thracian-style design instead?”

Those words caused Diana to like this man all the more. Most Greeks are disparaging about their northern neighbours, but he saw their ancient glory as well as their current poverty.

“That would be marvellous!” she replied.

They looked at some designs and worked something out, based on a pot design of black-painted ceramics with gold leaf images. The ones on the example told the story of an ancient Thracian king, but Yiorgos suggested they change them to the story of the sorceress ‘Thrace’, founder of the ancient civilisation, who was said to be daughter of Oceanus and sister to Europa. “And we will give her your face for you truly look like a mythical goddess who has entrapped my friend’s heart with your sorcery!” added the potter.

thracian princess pot

After the visit to the potter, Mark then took her to an upmarket tailor who proceeded to make a very special outfit for her, contemporary but based on ancient Thracian fashion, all flowing gowns that felt sumptuous on her skin. Then he took her to the city’s greatest stylist who made up her hair – previously in a plain ponytail – like an ancient Thracian noblewoman. Thus, looking like the goddess that Mark believed she was, they dined at a fine restaurant before retiring back to their five star hotel for a bout of lovemaking. Although bored of Mark in bed, after he had been so generous – and feeling a little guilty for her forthcoming deception – Diana let him do whatever he wanted with her and that night he seemed to take an inordinate amount of time caressing her legs and fondling her shapely ass.

And when they had finished the lovemaking, they ordered wine and, after drinking her glass, Diana fell into a deep, contented sleep.


When she awoke, Diana knew that something was wrong. She opened her eyes but no light entered. Not even a chink. And, when she tried to move, her body somehow did not respond. She cried out but that realised that something – it felt like a rod of some sort – was lodged in her mouth, and all that came out was an mmphf. Fear took over.

Then, out of the darkness, came a soothing voice. “Good morning, darling. I trust you slept well.”

It was Mark. She mmphfed again and he spoke once more. “You are trying to speak, no? Well, that is not possible now as there is a gag in your mouth. I shall remove it soon, but first let me move you somewhere better.

And she felt herself being moved. Her body, totally unresponsive, was lifted and carried. Yet she never felt any hands touch her. Indeed, she felt somehow enclosed, or encased. It was weird. Not all of her though. She could feel the wind on her face and her breasts and her private parts. The rest though, was somehow covered up.

She was placed down and she felt Mark draw near. He kissed her lightly on her forehead and then did something to her eyes. Immediately the light rushed in. She blinked and adjusted herself. She was sitting on the balcony of their house in Draxos that overlooked the blue waters of the Aegean. There was not a cloud in sight and in the distance she could make out the white triangle of a yacht’s sail.

“The cause of the blindness was these,” said Mark. He was holding a pair of contact lenses in the palm of his hand. They were totally black. Anyone wearing them would have no sight whatsoever. But why…?

“I’ve made a few changes,” he said, smiling. And then he turned her around to face a full-length mirror. What was reflected back at her stunned her completely. Still smiling, he took out the gag, which transpired to be both large and penis-shaped.

“What the fuck have you done to me?” she cried.

“I gave you a boob job like I promised,” he replied.

Mark HAD mentioned a boob job before. Diana liked her tits but they were rather small and a little saggy. They were neither now, instead two bulging orbs projected from her chest. Or at least, from where her chest should have been.

Oh yes, the boob job was the least of her problems.

She was in the pot that they had commissioned. Yes, that is right: encased within the vase, her head sticking out of the top and her boobs squeezed out of two windows on the front while, down below them, there was another, smaller window, through which her denuded pussy and anus could be seen.

“I had the boobs done after you were potted. I think they look better than way although I’m sorry if the fit is now a bit tight,” Mark continued, still talking about her bloody tits.

“Forget my boobs! What have you done to the rest of me? Why can’t I feel or move my arms and legs?”

“Oh, because they aren’t there anymore. They were the first things that the surgeon removed. Then he cut you open and removed the non-vital organs and all your bones save for the spine. Your entire body size is now comparable to your head, hence you being able to fit so snugly into your pot. Do you like how it has come out? Yiorgos has done a fine job, don’t you think?”

Diana was in shock. “But… why? Why am I in a pot?”

“Because I believe women look prettier in them. Plus, potted girls are far less likely to leave their future spouses.” He looked at her gravely. “I know your plans and intentions. I was your sugar daddy, useful to pay for your forthcoming MA. Not that you’ll be able to do that now, of course; after all, what use is an archaeologist with no limbs? No, I would never have potted you had you stayed true and faithful. But come on, Diana, did you really expect a guy who works in tech not to hack into your emails and social media?”

“How dare you! I’ll…”

“You’ll stay quiet,” he replied and replaced the gag. There was absolutely nothing she could do to stop him. Then, to her horror, he picked up the contact lenses once again and refitted them. Her world plunged into blackness. Silenced, blinded and immobile. It was like a descent into hell.

“Let me tell you how this works,” continued Mark’s voice. “You are now my potgirl, my Thracian goddess. You will live here for the rest of your days, spending your time in leisured luxury relaxing on the balcony or in a room. You will be cared for by your maid. A great advantage about living in Greece these days is the steady flow of illegal migrants. The girl I’ve got for you is Sudanese. She doesn’t speak a word of English and can’t run off. She will see to your every need save for that most important one…”

His voice trailed off and she felt a finger trace over her nipples and then touch her clit. She shuddered in both horror and delight. “Your sexual needs. You are still my girlfriend after all; we never broke up. I will continue to be your partner and may even offer you my hand in marriage one day. Why, we could even have kids as I’ve saved your eggs; all we require is a willing surrogate and, like I said, with a steady flow of migrants… However, you need to be willing in all this. I will never force myself upon you, nor will I endure abusive language or behaviour. That’s why you’re gagged and blinded now. If you misbehave, you will wear one or the other. If you bite my tongue when we’re kissing, or my cock when you’re giving me a blow job, then the lenses will be in for months, ear plugs too. But behave, woo me, couple with me, chat with me, and you can be rewarded and not just with sex. It can get quite lonely out here on this island, but I have friends with partners, potgirls like yourself. Indeed, Yiorgos is desperate to bring his wife Melissa around. That can be your first reward for good behaviour. Think about it, my Thracian goddess.”

And with those words he left her there, blank eyes staring into nothing, mouth gagged, naught more than an elegant household decoration in the luxury mansion of Mark Vogel.

As his footsteps faded into the distance, Diana realised that she had a lot of thinking and adjusting to do. Fat tears fell from her eyes onto her pot, running down the shiny surface like raindrops until they soaked into her protruding breasts.

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