Slave Girls of Rome

by Don Winslow

  Enthralled, I studied that magnificent, naked body, the lean hard muscles tapering in long feminine contours, the breasts, firm, high set, hard, and fiercely proud with prominent pink nipples that seemed to jut straight out in open defiance. My eyes fell to the silvery fleece of her brazen womanhood, a triangle of soft wispy curlings that thickened at the apex into a blond tuft only half hiding the pouting cuntlips. Her fuzzy pubic hair was paler than the hair on her head; the latter was long and thick, and gave a hint of former glories. Now, it was matted and unkempt so it gave her the frazzled look of a wild woman. I wondered if her new owner would have sense enough to allow the girl to keep that long mane of pure blond gold, or would he insist she be shorn, reduced to the sort of blond stubble that many citizens thought quite fashionable for their slaves these days.

  As the last of the train passed by, I found myself following the parade to the slave market, eager to see if this Nordic goddess would be placed on the block today. Such a splendid Teutonic specimen would certainly fetch a healthy price from any of a dozen of the best known procurers, but it was more likely that some wealthy patron would pay dearly to add this exquisite beauty to his private collection. Of course, there was no way I could even dream of buying such a woman myself, having but two coins in my purse at the time. That was out of the question!

  Still, I was intrigued, hopelessly taken by her. I wanted in the worst way to see her standing alone on the raised platform: a splendid nude, presented in all her naked glory for public inspection, posed for the edification of the rabble of Rome. Would her regal demeanor falter when this strong proud female stood poised to meet her fate? Would the look of sullen defiance in those remote blue eyes give way to fear when she found herself naked and alone on the raised platform before the lusty, bawdy, raucous crowd that inevitably gathered to rake in the free public spectacles the slave auctions provided?

  The destination of this sorry parade was the grounds of largest and best of the pubic auctions run by two brothers named Maximus. By the time I got there a good-sized crowd was already on hand, with more joining every minute. Today’s slaves were being lined up, connecting tethers undone so that they might mount the auction block singly, one by one, to be present themselves, to be inspected, and ultimately sold to the highest bidder. The slaves’ manacles were removed, and before they ascended the raised platform, a high leather collar was fixed around each neck. A thin rawhide strip attached to the collar was used as a lead so that the handler might bring the slave forward to be presented.

  By now the captives would be properly cowed so that the heavier whip that was used in the early days of captivity, and retained for the most recalcitrant, could easily be dispensed with for this lot. To keep their charges in line the more skillful handlers need only employ a thin hickory stick.

  The pace was smooth and business-like. Each slave was made to mount the steps and there to suffer the indignities of being closely examined by the chief auctioneer, one of the Maximus brothers, who conducted the sort of thorough inspection one would expect to see if he were buying a valuable racing horse. Once he was well satisfied, the auctioneer would set the starting price, and the bidding could begin.

  I recognized this particular fellow: a skinny, bald gnome named Glutus, and I watched the obvious pleasure he took in his task, laughing when I saw the leer than came over his lips, as he contemplated the pleasure of having such pretty women about to be placed in his hands. On the lookout for the slightest show of defiance, he stepped forward, eager to make this sorry lot do his bidding, adopting all sorts of poses to show off their best features while he went over the fine merchandise meticulously with his hands, lingering especially with the females, feeling here and there, probing this crevice, or squeezing that jutting curve. The man obviously loved his work!

  Bidding that day was hot and heavy, and the line moved quickly. I pushed my way through the crowd, eager to see more as her time drew near, and the big blonde moved to the head of the line to have her manacles removed. She stood with eyes front, ignoring the rough handler who fitted the high leather collar around her neck, then paused to run his callused hand down over her left breast, copping a quick feel, before he busied himself with attaching the rawhide lead. Now the tall stately blonde was led to the wooden steps.

  The burly handler held the girl’s lead in one hand while in the other he loosely carried a thin pliant rod, no thicker than a man’s finger at the blunt end and tapering to a point at the other. He wielded the rod skillfully, careful to use it only on the fleshy hindquarters of the more attractive slaves, so as not to damage that valuable property. He was not a particularly cruel man, but he was an impatient one, and I saw a flick of the wrist and the girl’s hips jerked forward as the whippy rod solidly struck her handsome rump, impelling her to step lively in spite of herself. He led the naked young woman up the steps and brought her to the center of the high square platform, and the crowd seemed to quiet down as though sensing something special was about to take place.

  “Stand at attention! Hands together, behind your neck! Elbows back . . . head up!” Glutus snapped, stepping up to the tall blonde till he was close to but not touching her, to stand with his eyes just inches from the side of her expressionless face, coolly appraising her beauty, those long clean lines.

  At first the blond barbarian didn’t move a muscle, but a sharp whack on the bare bottom reminded her of the importance of instant obedience. Her shoulders shot up in abrupt recoil and she turned to look at her handler with a look of utter disdain. But the wicked rod in his hand only rose slightly, and it was enough to cause her to turn back resentfully and to slowly bring up her arms to assume the mandated pose, throwing back her shoulders, proudly thrusting out her firm breasts, locking her eyes on some distant horizon. There was a lively murmur of approval from the crowd.

  The lecherous old goat licked his chops as he passed his hands up and down that magnificent body, feeling the captive woman up freely, lavishly savoring feminine curves and contours, caressing the rich handfuls of both breasts, pausing briefly to sample her taut nipples before slipping his hands between her legs to fondle the soft folds of her blond sex. He stepped behind her, ran his hands up and down her sleek haunches, greedily exploring each mound and crevice of that splendid perfectly-still nude. He looked in her eyes, had her open her mouth, pressed back her lips to study her strong clenched teeth.

  Then the meticulous auctioneer stepped back, preparing to put the big nude through her paces. He had her widen her stance, and then drop her arms and lean forward with head raised and hands placed just above the knees, so that the rich full breasts swung forward to hang in two succulent tit-bags, while she looked out over her audience. Now, he brought up his pointed stick, and used it to trace a line up the side of her curved body, starting at the nearest sturdy thigh, moving up over the generous cradle of her hip, then onward up her flank, till the traveling point slid around under her bent torso and found a dangling tit. He used the stick to stir the helpless woman’s tits, flicking them up so they juddered most delightfully, as a titter of laughter ran through the crowd. He traced a line from under the hanging sacks over a now hard yet pliant nipple, and up the slope outlining the generous curve of ripe feminine pulchritude.

  A nod to his assistant had that stocky man step up and grab a fistful of the blond hair at the back of the girl’s head, to yank back her neck, forcing his captive to raise her shoulders and deepen the curve in her back. And then, while she was being held like that, she was ordered to bring her hands up to cup her ample breasts, as if offering them to the hungry audience. She obeyed, her eyes daring them to look; the gesture got an immediate roar of lusty approval.

  Now her tormentor used the pointy rod to toy with the proffered tits. The devilish instrument pressed in, indenting the soft flesh, testing the resiliency of the breast, the softness of the enticing flesh, the underlying firmness. He spent a long time teasing her nipples, moving from one to the other, scratching lightly at the hardening points, then
flicking the little pliant tip that seemed to stand up so hopefully under the mild stimulation till he had the big, pink nipples blossoming. Another roar of approval swept though the restless crowd.

  I marveled at the girl’s control as she held herself perfectly still while the wicked pointer invited the crowd to appreciate the strength of those long, finely-muscled legs, and those robust thighs. Thoroughly enjoying himself, Glutus was clearly playing to the excited mob. After a few minutes if this, he had her drop her arms to resume the starting position, commanding her to rise up to her full height, and stand once more at attention, hands loosely at her sides, legs rigidly together. Then he had the young woman turn around so that her back was towards the audience and we were greeted by our first view of the long gently sloping back, and the comely form of that shapely rearend. Looking closely one could make out two faint pink welts that crossed the buttocks, traces of the whippy rod that had been so smartly laid across her bottom earlier. The pointer traced down her back and over the twin swells of that womanly, high-set bottom.

  Curtly, she was ordered to bend down once more, assuming the same pose as before, but this time turned with her back to us, so that she was offering up her jutting behind to be admired. Not quite satisfied with the results, the auctioneer forced the girl to bend down even lower, arching her back with hands braced on her thighs, thus boldly trusting back that choice, rounded rump of hers. His next command must have been even more obscene, even more humiliating, for this time the proud barbarian shook her blond mane in mute refusal. Like lightening, the whippy rod shot out to whack her crisply across the tautly-drawn curves of her jutting butt, causing the bending girl to jerk upward, her hands flying back to her tightened cheeks at the viciousness of the stinging lick. It was enough to prompt her to readily obey even the most perverse demands placed upon her, as we saw, as next she responded by squirming her hips and shaking her tail from side to side in a delightfully provocative gesture. Waves of raucous laughter greeted the sight of this proud Teutonic woman wiggling her ass like a Babylonian whore!

  To add even further to her humiliation, the poor girl was next made to rotate her behind in a lewdly suggestive manner, eliciting a spate of bawdy offers from the increasingly excited rabble. After a few minutes of this amusing diversion, her tormentor allowed her to straighten up, but it was only so she could be put in an even more humiliating pose. For now he had her turn around once more to face the mob. She stood before them with chin held high; her blond face, expressionless. She stood there: a big blond animal, powerful and deeply sensual, and still able to hold herself coldly remote in spite of the lewd poses she was forced to endure for the pleasure of her masters.

  Cautioning her to keep her hands on her hips, and hold herself perfectly erect, he ordered his captive to her knees. The pointed wand was used to nudge her knees apart, giving us an unhindered view of the blond fleece of her vulva. In the most humiliating gesture of sexual subservience he had her reach down and pry open the thick lips of her vagina to show her gaping sex to the cheering multitude. The crowd went wild!

  After exhibiting herself for what must have seemed like forever to her, the kneeling woman was allowed to rise up and resume the first pose: hands clasped behind her neck. The bidding was about to begin. At last, satisfied that he knew he value of what he had, the wily auctioneer stepped back, mounted his podium and announced the starting price. The sum he mentioned to begin the bidding for this proud beauty, took my breath away, and got an audible gasp of admiration from the gaping crowd. And that was only where the brisk bidding started!

  After that day I couldn’t get the powerful image of that big blonde out of my mind. It stayed with me by day, and it haunted my dreams at nights: The achingly beautiful blond slave, forced to submit, to adopt the erotic poses demanded of her before the rabble of Rome, or more obsessively, the image came to me as I had first seen her: splendidly tall, naked and chained, her hands clenching the wooden bars of her cage as she looked out with icy disdain on the leering louts who would seek to tame her. And when Lucius spoke of Rome, the reason for my restless discontent came to me in a flash. Thus, the idea began to grow of going to that place, where one might find and personally capture one of those blond beauties. Slowly the idea took shape, and it grew with my unexpected excitement. I must go north!

  For someone like me, there was much to recommend such a post. First of all, it was said that with only a few denarii in his purse a man could live like a king among those half-civilized tribes. Then there were rumors, vague but persistent, of hoards of gold kept hidden by the savage chieftains, there for the taking, the rich spoils of the war on the last frontier. It was true that all such booty belonged, in theory, to the emperor, but it was widely known that many an enterprising officer found ways to line his pockets along the way as the spoils of war made their way, not always intact it seems, back to the imperial treasury. And finally there was the legions’ generous practice, at some of these more remote locations, of allowing a portion of the captives to be given to the soldiers as personal slaves.

  Of course, the choice of any such captives taken in war would first go the officers. That thought inspired me. Did I dare to dream of owning such a woman as that caged, Nordic goddess? Was it so inconceivable that someday I might posses one, or even more of those proud beauties? The thought fired my lust and sent my penis stirring in my loincloth. I became convinced, if indeed I needed any further convincing, that I would request a re-assignment just as soon as I could get back to headquarters.

  I knew there were those who would question my judgment, even my sanity, when it became known that I had actually volunteered to be posted to the far frontier. I would request a transfer to Gaul, where troops kept watch along the northern frontier; a place that seemed to many Romans, like the very ends of the earth itself. Everyone knew it to be a land surrounded by dense, gloomy forests, peopled with semi-civilized but unkempt Gauls, savage Saxons, and that fiercely independent Northern tribe known as the Teutons, who lived along the very fringe of the empire. True, these barbarians had been tamed, at least for the moment, but it was widely agreed that renewed fighting might break out at any time. Surely, no sane man would forsake the enticements of Rome for so desolate a place! But Lucius had been right. The alluring pleasures of Rome were not for such as us. I swore that when I returned to Rome it would be in triumph, as a rich man. Sadly, I came to realize the truth of Lucius’ words: The finest delights would always remain the exclusive preserve of the rich and powerful.

  Once I had decided my course of action I never looked back, but went straight off to find Flavius, my commander, and then the company’s adjutant. Publius looked me up and down, squinting, studying my face with those narrow, brutish eyes of his, highly suspicious as to why anyone should make such an outlandish request. But I stood facing him calmly. With Falvius’ written approval in hand, I waited patiently, my expression totally non-committal. He saw that I was determined, and with a shrug and sad shake of his head, he signed the parchment, then stamped it, officially sealing my orders.

  Chapter Three

  LET THE GAMES BEGIN

  And so it was I came to find myself at a place called Bernesium, the only officer in command of the 200-man garrison stationed at a small, but well-built and comfortably solid compound. Our fort stood on a hill, guarding the only approach to the town below. Bernesium was still a garrison town to be sure, the sort of place that inevitably grows up under Roman protection. First came the fort, and then a small colony sent from Rome, and finally the local Gauls had drifted in to cluster beneath the sheltering walls. I was surprised at how large the colony had become. There was even a handful of merchant’s and craftsmen’s stalls in the marketplace. Peace had been good to this bustling frontier town. At the far end of the town was a large lake with plentiful, tasty fish. The crops were surprisingly lush here, and a brisk trade had grown up as I soon discovered, because the town was at the crossroads of not two, but three, minor trade routes.

  Altoget
her, not such a desolate place after all, I soon decided. Although that was not at all my impression when I first laid eyes on the place, as my horse slowly crested the top of a gentle hill, and I looked down for the first time on my new home. Spring had not yet come to Gaul, and the landscape was stark, the trees bare. There were little signs of life in the still cold air, though smoke came up from some of the huts. I’ll admit that upon first impressions the prospect before me seemed rather bleak, and my first view of the place caused me to I wonder if I’d made a terrible mistake.

  By the time spring came that year, however, I had settled in nicely. Bernesium became green and rather pleasant, the air, caressed with soft breezes and the budding fruit trees, promised an early, warm summer. My men were a rough and rather dull lot, but then I hardly expected the spit-and-polish of the Praetorian Guard. On the whole, they were no better, or no worse, than any other company of common soldiers. Fortunately, my sergeant was a competent enough fellow who pretty much ran things, leaving me with considerable leisure time. Somehow Sergeant Metelus managed to take care of things, seeing to the daily affairs of the company, assuring that the men were reasonably satisfied, adequately fed, and paid on time. Bernesium is, after all, a small town, and small towns abound in rumors. I soon heard the rumors concerning the good sergeant: that he had a lucrative side-business, offering extra protection to the local tradesmen whose caravans were constantly coming and going through the wild countryside. I never troubled myself about these matters. After all, we had quickly come to a sort of understanding, one that seemed to work for both of us.