Alexander, Campsaspe and Brothel in Athens

Campsaspe had become his favorite courtesan simply because Alexander didn’t want to bother juggling many women like his father. Even though he slept with her, he liked to stay up late to study his military maps and beloved Iliad.
Once in a while, however, Alexander talked with Campsaspe about the life in Athens, which piqued his thought.
“Campsaspe, do the Athenians worship the mother goddess?” For him, the mother goddess always loomed like a gigantic figure in the back of his mind like an inflated image of his own powerful mother, Olympias.
“Yes, we do. Like other cities, we have the temple of Aphrodite. We consider Aphrodite as the mother goddess—a fertility deity. She is also a protectress of prostitutes and courtesans.”
“So you worship the goddess everyday, don’t you?”
“No, not really. I’m not a religious person. But many prostitutes do. It’s customary for them to devote all they earned on the fourth day of the month—sacred to Aphrodite—as a temple offering.”
Solon, the wise lawgiver of the sixth century B.C., set up the first brothel in Athens as one of deliberate state policies. He purchased a suitable building, furnished it with trained girls imported from Asia Minor, and kept the prices deliberately low to encourage patronage so that men stayed away from adulterous affairs that could only lead to trouble.
With breasts bare beneath thin dresses of gauze, the prostitutes flaunted themselves in the sunlight. A customer picked whoever took his fancy—slim or well-covered, lanky or well-rounded, young or mature. He didn’t have to sneak in with a ladder, or climb through a window, or smuggle himself in beneath a load of straw. Quite the contrary, the girls dragged him into the house by force, calling him ‘Daddy’ if he appeared a father figure, ‘Little Brother’ or ‘Little Boy’ if he turned out much younger.
“In our city,” said Campsaspe, “the magistrate allowed no free citizen to become a prostitute.”
“Then where does the madam acquire girls?”
“The brothels recruit those girls from the slave market. Some of them come even from the Asian coast—Miletus, Ephesus, and Halicarnassus.”
“Can they speak the language?” asked Alexander.
“Some of them do because many Greeks live over there.”
“Is your city harsh on those girls?”
“Not too harsh, but the officials are quite pesky. Once the brothel owner registers those girls, the city officials supervise their activities to maintain public decency, disallowing the girls to leave the brothel except in the evenings, and the prostitutes have to wear distinctive dress.”
“What kind of clothes?”
“Saffron-colored dress. But it doesn’t work.”
“Why not?”
“Because, soon afterward, many women of noble blood considered the color fashionable and started to wear the dress of the same color.”
“Is that right?” Alexander laughed.
“I’m pretty sure, the stupid city boss is going to change the color. But there’s one thing those noble women didn’t copy.”
“Oh? What is it?”
“Those prostitutes wear a blond wig.”
“Why blond?”
“Because customers prefer a blonde. But those noble women don’t like such a wig.”
The prostitutes had to pay taxes on their earnings. Athens regulated the prices officially.
The house where they worked remained open night and day, but curtained off from vulgar curiosity. Customers passed a porter into a courtyard where the girls, scantly dressed, sat at the entrances to their rooms. The Athenians considered the brothel as a sanctuary where the law might not intrude. Creditors could not pursue debtors here, nor did relatives hunt their errant kinfolk. When business went into the doldrums, the girls might join the streetwalkers outside.
The shoes of these girls bore a pattern of nails on the sole that, as she walked, imprinted the distinct pattern on the dusty road so that the prospective customers could follow them. It worked as a primitive form of advertisement—just like an imprinted banner on the ground.

Equally distinctive to the eyes of the customers, the brothel unmistakably beckoned its prospective patrons with its house sign: a carving of a large erect phallus.

Courtesans, the top class of those girls, provided female companionship. Because the Athenians regarded their wives simply as a housekeeper and a breeder of heirs, the husbands looked elsewhere not only for sexual pleasure but also for deeper companionship.
In addition of being beautiful, witty, elegant, and charming, these courtesans provided her clients with enjoyable conversation and highly sophisticated entertainment so that they could keep company with their intelligent clients such as philosophers, orators, statesmen, and scholars.
“I used to be a flute-girl,” said Campsaspe. “So, I don’t know much about other subjects. I wonder if you need the company of a more knowledgeable woman.”
“No, I don’t. I think you’re quite knowledgeable. I really enjoy talking with you.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty.”
“Just call me Alex—between you and me. Okay?”
Campsaspe smiled, contentedly.
Though four years his senior, she looked like an innocent-looking country girl. Alexander loved to watch and to trace the delicate outline of her shapely figure. Though she had rather disproportionately broader hips, which seemed fit as an heir-provider, her breasts appeared small yet nicely-shaped. Sensitive to his touch, the pinkish nipples grew turgid and hard while he caressed both tenderly. As her breasts swelled languorously, her eyes became dreamy.
As if to uncover the veils of the feminine mysteries, Alexander carefully caressed her delicate surface. His hand groped for her hidden charms and secrets. Though unexperienced, Alexander treated her as a precious gem as he came to know her better.
Enshrouded in various veils of beauty, sensitivity, and passion, Campsaspe’s lovely body writhed in supplication. With slow, undulating, yet tension-filled movements, she grew into a passionate Aphrodite. The movements became more intense, more feverish, and more eager. When Alexander reached the boiling point, he eventually thrust his throbbing, blue-veined rod into her hot melting pot.
Alexander thought he’d spent the most pleasurable night. To his surprise and yet to a certain embarrassment, however, he found Campsaspe quite ready for another rapture. She smiled self-consciously, but seemed determined to take an initiative. Feeling satisfied yet exhausted already, Alexander hesitated for a short while, but she took a decisive action. Within a minute, Campsaspe made it robust again. His junior appeared hard and large enough to fill her ever-enticing tight grotto.
Mounting on the king, Campsaspe began to get hot again. Her melting pot kept sucking it wildly, more than she had with her mouth. Flames shot up through the inside of her body. Her nipples became erect and her breasts grew harder and bigger.
“Yes, I must give him an heir,” Campsaspe said to herself deep inside while she felt her neck flush and her ears turn hot-red. Remembering the harsh demand of the queen-mother, she looked down at Alexander, who stared up at her, stupefied. Campsaspe half-smiled, though it somewhat got frozen with her tension and excitement.
Campsaspe could have come right away, but her instinct told her it would be even better if she could hold it a little longer. Straddling, she kept moving back and forth gently—then up and down firmly. Her legs began to tremble and an involuntary action caused them to close in, pinching his slender hips like a vise.
Campsaspe couldn’t hold back any longer. Sensing that she would come at any moment, she stopped, closing her eyes and concentrating on her sizzling insides, which kept doing plenty of moving on their own.
Then it came, and she felt another explosion. Her amatory muscles kept on throbbing, slamming together, and sucking the hell out of the king’s throbbing rod as if they had a life of their own, grabbing and pulling on his prick, sucking all of his juices out. The hot gush kept coming and coming.
Campsaspe came so long and so strong that she got dizzy, almost fainted. Yet she pulled herself up, well-aware of the obsessive reminder of Olympias.
“Yes, I must give him an heir.”
Finally, it began to subside. Her legs became supple, her breathing turned normal, and her eyes captured an stupefied image of the young king, who looked up at her as if to worship the Mother Goddess. Since Alexander seldom gave her an opportunity to make love, Campsaspe had to make the most out of this rare occasion. Awakened by the renewed sense of devotion and loyalty, Campsaspe started priming him again for another rapture, knowing that tonight would be the longest night in her life.

Although Alexander appreciated Campsaspe's company, her stamina for lovemaking became too much for him. So, he had to think about some way to stay away from her. How?—he wondered. If you're interested in his solution, please read my article: Alexander the Great & his Courtesans.