Kneel at his feet and use the small blade

He laughs in triumph as you drop to your knees at his feet. His cock bobs by your face and you grip its scaly shaft in your white hand. Other girls have told you horror stories of diseased men, and warned you not to risk touching the organs of men with these symptoms, but it was not as though you have a choice. Kytonos' hand grabs you by the back of your head and jerks your mouth forward against his crotch.

Closing your eyes helps you not think about the sagging belly and matted hair that surrounds the guard’s fetid organ, but as he jams his cock between your lips you almost gag from the foul stench of unwashed skin. It takes every bit of self control you have not to spit out the rancid cock that fills your mouth, or bight down on its hardness. Kytonos laughs in triumph as he feels your tongue swirl around his shaft and your hand cup his scrotum.

"I knew you were just a whore!" He grunts as he starts to saw his prick in and out of you. "How does it feel to have a real cock fill your pretty little face?" He clearly does not expect an answer as he once again thrusts his organ deep into your mouth making you gag in response. "Oh yeah my little priestess-whore, I bet this is how you served all the worshipers in Heliopolis when they came to make sacrifices to at your temple." His words sicken you as much as they seem to excite him, but as he fucks your mouth you are able to lift your small blade to the inside of his thigh.

From the time you were old enough to learn you have been taught how to count the heartbeats of injured warriors. You know that a great artery carries life blood from the heart to the legs just inches under your fingers, you can even feel the pulsing of the blood as your fingers press into the soft flesh. With a savage thrust you drive your blade as deep as you can into this vessel and as you pull it out you are rewarded with a fountain of hot blood spewing from his leg. Kytonos howls in pain and slaps at your temple with his meaty hand sending you reeling to the cold stone floor at his feet.

"You bitch! What did you do?" He asks in growing alarm and confusion as more and more blood squirts from his leg in great fountains of red. In panic he presses his hands to the gushing wound, but your cut struck true slicing deeply into the artery and in fewer than ten of your breaths the guard falls to the floor unable to stop his lifeblood from leaving his dying body. Your naked body is drenched in his blood, the warm fluid covering your pale skin like a garment, but instead of feeling guilt or horror you revel in the feeling of power for the first time in months. Spitting the last of his taste from your mouth onto his twitching body you watch with cold dispassion as his eyes stop flickering and grow still and dull.

As soon as you are convinced he is truly dead you lift from his belt a vicious belt knife and the ring of keys to the cells. With a weapon and means of escape you have a chance to flee this mansion and try to find your mother's troops. But you will need to get cleaned up before you go far and if you are spotted running naked through the streets you doubt you will be able to avoid the lustful actions of the rampaging soldiers. Even if Kytonos' tunic were not covered in drying blood you doubt you would have taken it. It was far too large for your small frame, and smelled of stale sweat and wine.

The key unlocks your cell door and the hallway outside is lit by the dim light of a flickering lamp. A few other cells line the hallway but as far as you know you are the only inhabitant of the dungeon. At the end of the hall is a heavy wooden door. Usually it is open, you are used to hearing men move up and down this hallway without pausing, but today it is closed tight. Perhaps Kytonos pressed it shut to reduce the chances of your screams reaching the rest of the house, whatever the reason, you will have to open it enough to slip into the main house.

On the far side of the door is a small sitting area for the guards to relax in, and you press your ear to the thick panels for a minute or two listening for the sounds of other men before turning the heavy brass handle and easing open the door. Opening the door you see no one waiting on the other side.

“Gods be praised.” You intone. The words feel flat as you speak them and you wonder if you even believe the gods care about the actions of their children any more than a farmer cares about the ants that build their labyrinths in his field. As you move past the table you see man's sandaled foot protruding from behind one of the chairs, looking over the top of the seat you gasp in horror as you see the blank stare of a badly beaten boy. Clymene's son, his nose is broken, but you recognize him anyway.