The Shrine Prostitute

Babylon sprawled before the shrine, a labyrinth of mud-brick houses and narrow, winding streets framing palaces and temples in the city’s centre. The city pulsed with a grim vitality, its people toiling under the relentless sun. Amidst the squalor of the slums, Ishtar’s shrine was one of many modest sanctuaries, its terracotta tiles and rough stone walls blending seamlessly with the surrounding mud brick houses.

Inside the shrine, a dense fog of burning incense from cheap candles and the smell of perfumes permeated. The minimal firelight cast dancing shadows across the walls, unevenly illuminating the various crude statues of Ishtar.

In the middle was the grand alter. Compared to the altars in the noble districts this was nothing, but for the slums the gem inlaid stone was a rarity. Atop the altar lay a merchant, and atop him bounced Shayla. The man was fat, clearly wealthy from selling wares at exploitive prices. Every time Shayla dropped, her crotch would smack against his protruding belly with a resounding slap.

Shayla's body was lithe yet womanly, all hard planes and soft curves - the physique of a bird plucked too soon from its nest. Her large, heavy breasts swayed with each roll of her hips, the dark peaks of her nipples straining against the thin linen of her top. The fabric was askew, exposing the delicate, almost translucent skin of her collarbone and the sharp line of her sternum. Taut muscles rippled beneath the olive sheen of her skin as she struggled to maintain her rhythm, to focus on her duty.

The merchant was a coarse brute, his belly a doughy counterpoint to the lean, girlish lines of his temple prostitute. His coarse pubic hair, matted with sweat from his exertion, was pushed out in all directions as he gripped Shayla's slender hips, his fingers sinking into her flesh like a drowning man grasping a raft.

Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes as she struggled to remember the next line of the incantation, her breath coming in short, ragged gasps. "I-I call upon thee, O… fuck… O Ishtar," she gasped out, her voice little more than a whisper, "I call upon thee to bless...to bless the... ah… t-to bless the voyage your servant is set to under… ah… underg… oh…” She faltered, the words slipping from her grasp as a particularly deep thrust sent a jolt of sendation through her core. Gritting her teeth, she forced herself to continue, even as her slender thighs trembled and her inhabitants clenched in protest.*

“U-unite… ah… with this man as w-we become one. L-let my womb b-become yours. Takehisseedashisoffering-ahhhhh...”Shayla hissed and breathed a silent prayer to Ishtar as the merchant's seed seeped into her. With trembling hands, she scattered some ashes from a bowl she held onto his chest, watching as the flakes stuck to his sweaty skin.

Shayla accompanied the man to the door with a distinct limp. “May I-Ishtar b-b-bless you.”

The man smirked, handing Shayla some copper coins. “She better. I hear Mylitta in the next shrine over has a tighter cunt, but I also hear you’re more pious.”

With that the man left, and Shayla took up her post at the shrine entrance. Her clothes were back on, but there was no mistaking her aura of a just fucked shrine prostitute, ready to be fucked again.