by Don Winslow
And as the girl bent her head to follow my injunction, I got a sudden burst of inspiration. Reaching for Sylla, I pulled her around to kneel beside me. Picking up the still half-filled cup, I splashed the remainder of the wine right on her well-endowed chest. She gave a girlish giggle, and shook her shoulders in surprise as the wine trickled down the slopes of her wobbly tits. Sliding my cupped hands down her flanks, I curled my fingers around her hips, digging into the flesh of her soft, pliant ass. Tightening my grip, I pulled the girl toward me by the hips and then I dove in, nuzzling those wonderful tits, pressing my face into the soft cleavage, nudging the taut mounds with lips and nose, all the while licking, lapping up the sweet tasting wine, drawing my tongue up and over the lush contours while the woman writhed before me, twisting her shoulders in pure, sensual delight.
She arched back offering my greedy lips even more of her feminine pulchritude, while I drew spiraling circles, zeroing in on the fat caps of her pink nipples. I kissed those sensitive tips, taking the protruding stems between my teeth and pulling on them till Sylla gave out with a low, growl of animal pleasure. Then I suckled on that prominent nipple, drawing on it slowly and steadily, with the girl arching back, and writhing in my arms all the while.
My recollection of events after that are a little confused. Somehow we all three ended up on the rug. I remember the image of Sylla, her comely body laid out before me as I straddled her hips on my knees. I leaned forward bringing my upstanding prick up, to rub along its length her wet tits. I had her squeeze them together, imprisoning my rod between the squashed, fleshy mounds, while I moved my hips and spent a little time fucking her tits. Then, just as I was about to shoot off, I moved higher, easing my stiff prick up over her chin and lips, to rub it all over her face. Meanwhile, agile Tomi had slid behind me and, as I crouched down over the other girl, she began paying tribute to my upraised posterior, bringing her lips to my ass, and lavishly licking while I clenched my butt against the maddening tickle. The sudden surge of electric pleasure when the probing tongue touched my anus sent me shooting off all over the pretty face of the supine woman, who closed her eyes but didn’t turn away. It was an unforgettable night.
Kimar later asked me if I had enjoyed my fetching companions, and when I responded most enthusiastically, thanking him profusely for his generosity, he asked me if I had ever before had the rare privilege of enjoying both a mother and her daughter at the same time! Perhaps, he added with a sly wink, I’d care to see them make love to each other? Someday he would arrange for the two slaves to perform with each other for my private amusement. It was, he assured me, truly a stimulating sight!
Chapter Seven
THE LORDS OF DISCIPLINE
It was one warm lazy afternoon, as we lounged about in his tent, that Kimar began to tell me about his unique line of work. He was a lonely man, with no one to talk to for long months on end, except for the slaves, and the rather dull louts he employed as overseers. So when he was in his cups with me at his side, an “intelligent man-of-the-world,” as he called me, he seemed to want to talk. Kimar was justly proud of his reputation as purveyor of the finest sex slaves to the greatest city in the world, and he wanted me to understand that maintaining that reputation was a constant struggle. It was a sometimes intolerable burden to keep up the increasing demands for both quantity and quality that were insisted upon by the demanding clientele of that insatiable city.
It was bad enough that there were raiders that might pounce on the caravans at any time, that there was the need for constant vigilance, all of which added to the increasing costs of expensive protection. And of course, there were the rigors of the long marches. Through all these problems, he was expected to maintain a quality product, he commiserated with himself, shaking his head at the sad injustice of it all. It was even harder now that the war had cut off slaves from the East. Those were slaves who, having learned submission at the hands of some minor oriental potentate, needed very little training. They would just as readily bend their knee to a Roman master. But with this source of pliable slaves temporarily cut off, and with the demands of Rome increasing, it was to the North and West that he was inevitably forced to turn for new slaves, and these were a very different lot! Wild and unruly, these western barbarians had never learned true obedience. It was up to him to teach them. Now he lowered his voice and confided that there was but one true key to success—discipline. “House slaves and field slaves must learn to obey of course,” he explained. They were expected to follow orders and promptly carry out their duties. But sex slaves—they were another matter. They must learn instant and total submission!
The reason that Kimar’s slaves were so eagerly sought in Rome, and commanded such exorbitant prices, was found in the long hours spent in training. Kimar was a great believer in very strict discipline, and he had very definite ideas on training slaves. Their relentless training began from the first day when the fresh captives were turned over to him by the army. The new slaves learned that he would tolerate nothing short of perfect obedience. The slave who quickly learned to obey found that her master could be generous, but the slave who refused to submit, and accept her new status graciously, was to find that Kimar was a harsh master of discipline, a maestro, well-versed in the many and ingenious ways of enforcing his iron will.
And as to the matter of punishment, on that subject the old slaver had quite definite, if rather unconventional, views. Of course all slavers made extensive use of the whip to bring their charges into line, but Kimar did so only with the greatest reluctance. A light whip was used sparingly, if at all, especially in the training of the attractive young women who had been earmarked for eventual service to the lords of Rome. Kimar much preferred the use of a stout paddle to enforce discipline, and though it was generally his underlings that took care of such matters, he sometimes chose to take a personal hand in meting out the proper punishment.
“Some men whip their slaves, but I much prefer the paddle. Spanking a slave gives me a great deal of pleasure, while effectively enforcing my will in a way that is painful, but never leaves scars,” he explained, quite matter-of-factly.
The firm hand of discipline would only be eased once the girl proved pliant and well-mannered; her obedience, having been put repeatedly to the test, now judged to be satisfactory. Warming to his subject, the old slaver invited me to witness one such punishment about to be carried out on a particularly recalcitrant slave, a Saxon girl whom he had just recently acquired. It seems she was a rather rebellious young lass; her obedience grudging given, her attitude downright surly.
He now invited me to accompany him to the exercise yard where the slaves were being trained. As we approached the fenced-in grassy area that was used for this purpose, a gaggle of naked slave girls pounded past us. Forced to run in the prancing step favored by their handlers, hands clasped behind the neck, knees pumping up high, breasts jogging most delightfully as they passed by. I followed their progress past us and around the track, fascinated by the intriguing view from behind. I was still watching the rear view, entranced, when my attention was abruptly torn away by the shrill cry of a female in distress.
Across the yard from us a tussle had broken out as two of Kimar’s men struggled to subdue a squirming female. This was the Saxon girl, a stocky young woman, with a riot of pale tresses and that fell around her face and shoulders. She was a well-built girl, with muscular thighs, and firm high-set breasts, each hefty tit a full handful. Her heels were planted defiantly, and her shoulders twisted trying to shake off the grasp of her guards, while her conical titties jiggled in furious agitation. She kept up her noisy opposition until she was gagged, and then she continued to struggle in a silent but futile attempt to avoid her fate. The burly men had little trouble in manhandling the naked woman. Each one taking an arm, they half dragged, half propelled the braying slave girl to the trestle frame.
Sometimes called the “horse” this sturdy frame was constructed of a padded crossbar supported on thick wooden legs. The crossba
r was set at waist height so that a recalcitrant slave could be easily bent over the thickly padded wood. And it was over the crossbar that the business-like overseers now unceremoniously deposited their charge, upending her so that I now saw why Kimar thought I might wish to witness this paddling, for this girl sported a meaty bottom that was perfectly made for just that purpose. Hers was a firm ass: sturdy, solid, and nicely rounded. It was an ass that could absorb much punishment.
One of the slave drivers held her in place over the bar with a large flattened hand placed firmly on the small of her back, while she wiggled her rump and strained upward. The other man dropped to one knee, and clamping a wrist, pulled down on a dangling arm. The girl flailed her legs in screeching protest, kicking up her heels, but the men that held her stepped back quickly. And the heavy hand that pressed against her kept her pinned firmly in place. Now her legs were held, and bound together with strips of leather, tied around the thighs, and again around the calves.
The crouching man was working with swift efficiency now, running twine from the leather wristbands, to a convenient wooden stake sunk in the ground to serve as an anchoring point. Taking up the slack in the line had the effect of drawing the girl still further over the crossbar till her tightly-bound legs hung straight down on the near side, toes pointed down and stiffened so they barely touched the grass.
Now that she was stretched over the bar and held in place, the two overseers stood up and turned to bow briefly to their master. One of them unhooked a paddle that hung from his belt and handed it over to Kimar. This was the short-handled variety with a wide, flat blade of stiffened leather that was thin and pliable. The two capable assistants were now dismissed, as the master would no longer need their services. The Saxon slave was now his, to do with as he would!
Kimar approached the upended miscreant from behind, beckoning me to his side. Quite deliberately, he placed a hand on the served-up buttocks, curving his fingers to fit the rounded domes. The feel of his hand sent his victim mewing into her gag , twitching her hips in anxious protest, the only movement left to her in the helpless situation in which she found herself. The continuing protest brought a smile to the weary face of the old slaver, who took his time feeling her up, running his hand over the twin contours, testing the firm resiliency of those full-fleshed rearcheeks. Obviously pleased in contemplating the task he was about to undertake, the old slaver stepped back and stood eyeing the squirming feminine behind, while lightly tapping his palm with the paddle that he held in his right hand.
Now he took up his position behind, and just to the left, of the dangling legs, tapping the blade of the paddle lightly, squarely across the nicely-presented bottom as he took the measure of his target. He smiled to see the buttocks cringe under the first light kiss of leather. Now he widened his stance, setting his heels in place. Slowly, he drew back the evil paddle and with a sudden snap of the wrist sent it whipping towards the girl’s jutting bottom.
THWACK! The snapping blade splattered those jellied mounds, drawing a muffled yelp from the girl, who jerked upward on her bonds as the thudding impact shuddered through her stretched-out form.
Now, Kimar settled into a steady rhythm, spanking the bent-over slave girl, not hard, but with short choppy strokes, rapidly administered, until he had those wobbly rearmounds dancing wildly under the repeated slap of the flexible leather blade. The relentless spanking soon had the girl twitching in fiery agitation, muffled yelps coming from her inverted head with each decisive slap of the juddering mounds.
Eventually, Kimar slowed the pace, pausing somewhat longer between each decisive smack.
THWACK! . . . the pliant rearcheeks flattened and rebounded, leaving a red welt to spread across the twin curving surfaces . . . THWACK! . . . the blade solidly whacked the wobbling mounds . . . THWACK! . . . another firm, decisive stroke, delivered quite dispassionately, by the master slaver, whose eyes were hard and lips were set in a tight, determined line.
The fearful rearcheeks cringed in anticipation of each smack, clenching so that the sides hollowed out as the young Saxon woman steeled herself to meet the next attack. The butt muscles contracted tightly, coiling down to harden the rearmounds, constricting the rearcrack to a deep, narrow slit.
THWACK! Kimar walloped the hardened butt, smacking it squarely across the twin contours with a crisp snap of the wrist. There was an unmistakable howl of outrage, an urgent braying muffed by the wadded rags they had stuffed into her mouth, the gag that was held in place by the silken scarf that bound her head.
Now the slave master paused, and stepped up, to squat down near that inverted head that dangled between the taut, outstretched arms. He reached out to her, cupping her chin and holding it in his fingers as he lifted her head so that he might look into the wide, moist eyes that met his over the silken scarf. I don’t know what he saw there. Perhaps it was the hurt, or abject contrition, or maybe a silent plea for mercy, or maybe it was a look of satisfying submission, but whatever it was he saw there, it brought a smile to his lips. He reached under her to cop a quick feel of a dangling breast before rising up and stepping back to once more take up his position. Without further ado, he swung the paddle back in a wide full arc and brought it forward with vigor, ending the swing with a crisp, authoritative snap of the wrist.
THWACK!!! The solid blow landed with authority, ringing out across the exercise yard, and the muffled shriek it brought was long and wavering. At that he was apparently satisfied. Obviously pleased with his handiwork, the master slaver nodded in grim satisfaction and ran a hand over the warm, flinching rearend. Turning to me, he politely asked if I would like to try my hand. While watching the Saxon girl get spanked had quite an unsettling effect on me, and my swollen penis hung heavy beneath my loincloth, stirring at the sight of those well-punished buttocks, I politely declined. Perhaps I felt some twinge of pity for the chastised slave, who by now, surely had learned her lesson. Kimar shrugged his shoulders and suggested that perhaps some day I would like to take a more active role. I need only say so, and it would be arranged, he assured me!
To complete her punishment, the girl would be left on display in the hot sun for one hour, held in place stretched over the bar so she might contemplate the lesson she had been taught. Salt would be rubbed on her tenderized bottom. Her fiery buttocks, smarting from the angry sting of the wicked paddle, would serve as an object lesson to her cohorts who would be marched slowly past so they might view her throbbing ass and reflect on the price of disobedience.
As Kimar had promised, I was to witness many such exhibitions over the next few months, and to play the disciplinarian’s part in more than a few of them. But of these various entertaining spectacles, none was so unforgettable as the time Kimar arranged to have a group of four of his slaves punished simultaneously. It seems that his overseers had uncovered a plot wherein the four young women hoped to sneak away, taking refuge in the woods. There were some transgressions that the slave master would tolerate, viewing them as only minor indiscretions; but attempting to escape was another matter! It was one of those offenses that was taken quite seriously, and any girl caught trying to do so, was inevitably dealt with most severely so that she might be made an example of to those who might be so foolish as to entertain similar notions. As a measure of my growing status as a very special guest, Kimar arranged for a private disciplinary session for the quartet of would-be escapees to be held in his tent.
That evening when I entered his tent I saw that the furniture had been re-arranged. The small couches and pillows had been pushed back along the canvas walls, leaving plenty of room at the center of the huge tent for a sturdy cushioned bench that was low, long, and narrow. A padded board, the same size and shape as the bench, was hinged to it at one end so that the board could be lifted and swung up out of the way.
The purpose of this ingenious arrangement was being demonstrated for me as, sandwiched between the padded surfaces were the four naked malefactors who knelt on hands and knees, their lithe young bodies draped
over the bench, bellies pressed down on the leather-covered padding. The top board had been lowered to cross along the shallow curves of the lower backs, and then locked down at the far end, thus clamping the row of kneeling maidens in place. Imprisoned between the two padded surfaces, each girl found herself on hands and knees, unable to move, with shoulders and hips snuggled cozily to her mate’s, presenting her own, along with her sisters’ naked buttocks for our edification and approval. I noted that each girl had not only been gagged with a wide leather strap tied behind her head, but she was also blindfolded. This latter refinement of the wily slave master’s served to increase their helplessness and, by depriving them of knowledge of the approach of their chastisers, introduce the element of surprise into their punishment. A girl might shudder at the thud of the paddle, cringe to hear her sister’s muffled cries, sympathize as she squirmed in distress while rubbing anxious shoulders. It would increase her own fearful expectation to know that her time was about to come, but never knowing exactly when the paddle might strike her own vulnerable behind.
I eyed the charming row of girlish bottoms with genuine delight, resonating with a rutting surge of lust that had my manhood responding instantly, quickening, inflamed with the urgency of desire. Momentarily speechless, I beamed my approval, flashing my host my most appreciative grin. He acknowledged my silent compliment with a tilt of his head and put a single finger to his lips to assure my silence. Then, with overblown courtesy he bowed and offered me a paddle, holding it by the blade and presenting the handle to me with a flourish. For this evening’s session two wooden paddles had been selected by that consummate connoisseur: sturdy ones with short handles and wide oval blades. Leather paddles imparted more of a sting, but the wooden paddles, with their greater heft, and their stiffer, less pliant blades, delivered a more solid bone-jarring impact.
