Slave Girls of Rome

by Don Winslow

  As they entered the home stretch, the little jockeys began wielding their stinging whips with renewed determination, vigorously slashing at the churning buttocks, while the excited crowd urged on their favorites.

  At the end, it was virtually a dead heat, although the red team managed to edge out the blue at the last second. The crowd went wild, and cheers rang out, as the chariots continued circling at a slower pace while the sweating, panting ponygirls struggled for breath, breasts heaving mightily, as they slowed to an easy trot.

  Watching the magnificent red leader panting heavily, her long body quivering from the workout, her high-mounded breasts heaving in slowing undulations, I had to reach down to adjust my tunic to ease my stiffened penis. I knew what I had to do!

  I Jumped up, pushing my way through the excited crowd to find Kimar. I pulled him aside for a few quick words in an oversized ear. I assured the wily trader that, while he was entitled to a detachment of troops to protect the caravan for the normal 100 leagues from our post, I could personally see to it that he got the very best protection the Roman army could offer. He looked at me suspiciously; narrowed eyes took on a slightly puzzled look. But all he needed was a troop of well-armed soldiers, he countered. Slow on the uptake, I thought. True, I acknowledged, but, I pointed out to him, we had both young, green recruits normally sent on such duties, as well as battle-tested, seasoned veterans. The latter were the kind of stout men who would not turn and run at the first shouts of a thundering horde, leaving a defenseless caravan to the mercies of the wild Germans. And our local Germans were an unpredictable lot. They had been acting up lately. With such a valuable cargo as his . . . well, one just never knew . . .

  At last, the crafty slave trader saw the light. A sly smile curled his bloodless lips, followed rapidly by a dark scowl. “And the cost of this extra service?” he wanted to know. That was the question I was a waiting for!

  That night, a splendid Nordic beauty was delivered to my quarters. No longer Big Red, she had been rubbed down after the races, bathed and scented, the red dye gone from her statuesque body. And now she knelt before me with eyes downcast, hands behind her back, the golden hair on her bowed head shimmering in the flickering torchlight.

  While she was no longer a ponygirl, she presented herself as I had specified: in harness. I wanted for myself the pleasure of relieving her of her bright red tail as she waited on hands and knees for me to mount up. I still have it, nailed up on the wall of my quarters—a piece of tail from a most unforgettable night.

  THE RAPE OF THE SABINE WOMEN

  Part 1

  CALL ME PLUNAR

  I am old now. I don’t actually feel old, but, I am old.

  The truth is: for each man, the day comes when the infirmities of age become all too painfully obvious. His once proud sword, no longer responds, as it once did so faithfully, to the call to arms when faced with the plethora of feminine beauty which thrives in our eternal city. My own dance with Eros is no longer a lusty reel, but a pale ballet. At my age, the modest pleasures of watching seem all that the gods have left to me.

  Thus I spend hours contemplating the fascinating variations on the feminine form, taking delight in the parade of nude women at the baths, which, like all true Romans, I religiously attend, each and every day.

  Ah, to loll peacefully back into the warm scented waters of a heated pool and allow one’s eyes to take in each composition of feminine loveliness; naked girls who move with the unpretentious grace of innocent fauns, budding breasts so tentative and pristine; young maidens with small appealing breasts swelling with promise and their nice tight bottoms swaying with a certain charming insouciance. Latin beauties, who lay beside the pools, with languid limbs in repose, managing to seem totally indifferent to the admiring gazes of the young lads who crowd around them, yet are able to bring off the well-time slyly seductive glance with such devastating results. One observes the young bucks, hopelessly smitten, mildly embarrassed to be so helplessly sporting the swelling erections that grow and stiffen at the least provocation. Ah, to be young again!

  Then there are the more mature women: wives and mothers, strong, handsome, true Roman matrons with rich backsides, robust thighs, and fulsome breasts; bosoms that they display proudly naked, juddering with the most delightful wobble as they take the few dainty steps to stick a toe into the welcoming waters.

  As the reader can see, one can easily wile away many pleasant hours in this manner while reflecting on a life time of what some of our more virtuous brethren would call—overindulgence.

  No longer a combatant in the sex wars, I am able to spend my free time in more scholarly pursuits. Between my time at the baths, leisurely meals at some rich man’s table (although those invitations I fear are becoming less frequent, for mere scribes are no longer prized as dinner guests as we once were), and afternoon naps under the olive trees in the pleasant shaded atrium of my modest villa, I am engaged in writing what will be, I am sure, the true history of our beloved Rome.

  Oh, I know what’s going through the reader’s mind: Livy. Livy! Livy!! Livy!!! It is widely known, for that pompous prig never misses the chance to tell anyone, that he, the great Livy, is working on the “definitive” history of Rome. Definitive my ass!

  As if that fraud actually knew anything about the history of Rome! Oh, he talks a good game, I’ll give him that. That insolent pup has become the darling of the so-called elite, who fawn over his every word as they sit around on their fat asses gorging themselves on fancy wine and cheese. How they go on and on about this so-called “history” of his, even though no one’s actually seen a word. But I have something that young, bloodless simp could never have. You see dear reader—I was there!

  Yes, I was there at the beginning. Well not actually at the very beginning, for it was my father who was with Aeneas and his original band of Trojans. But I was young man, no more than a stripling, a mere lad, when called upon to answer the call to duty by Rome—by joining in the rape of the Sabine women.

  Part 2

  LET THE GAMES BEGIN

  As you know, after his brother’s death, Romulus took steps to fortify the Palantine, and in no time the fortress had grown into his new city on the hill—Rome. It was Romulus who divided the army into cohorts of one hundred men, and assigned a captain to each—the first Centurions. He also created the senators, thus bestowing upon us our first politicians—a dubious achievement. Still, Romulus knew that it took more than strong walls, a disciplined army, and a ruling class to build a flourishing state. Since Rome was founded by the remnants of the Trojan army, it remained a masculine state with manly virtues. But the shortage of women was so serious that it was obvious: Rome’s new-found strength would last no more than a single generation unless something drastic was done to replenish the population.

  At first, King Romulus tried diplomacy. He sent envoys to all the peoples of Latinus to forge marriage alliances, but the petty chieftains who ruled the neighboring states were suspicious. Fearful of Rome and its growing might; they spurned our offers, and rudely sent our envoys packing. Particularly insulting was the message that came back from the officious Sabines: “If the sons of the Trojans were to spend more time at the altar of Venus and less time at the altar of Mars, heaven might send them more women.”

  On hearing this news, certain senators immediately urged that raids be mounted. We would abduct their women, and forcibly carry the captives off to Rome. But Romulus kept his own counsel. He was thinking on a grander scale than gaining a handful of women by a few scattered raids on local villages. Although we didn’t know it, even then he had his eye on the Sabines, who were widely regarded as having the world’s most beautiful women.

  The Sabine women were striking: tall and well-built, with pleasing features, luxurious dark hair, and flashing eyes. These were alluring women whose passions were easily aroused, and whose lusty appetites were legendary among the peoples of Latinus. Sabine men, on the other had, tended to be meek and mild, scrawny in build, and easily do
minated by their untamed women. They were duplicitous, indecisive, and prone to endless debate. They loved gossip as much as the Greeks, but talk alone seemed to satisfy them; they seldom rose to resolute action. Such pathetic males made poor warriors, and even more dubious allies. It was said that in the Sabine home, the woman ruled and the man dutifully obeyed—a situation any son of the Trojans would have found intolerable! Sabine men were weak as water, even as their women were strong and fiercely independent. It was widely rumored that the men were hardly up to the task of satisfying the voracious appetites of their highly-sensual mates.

  There was another quality of the Sabines that would prove useful to the scheming Romulus. Like all Latin peoples, they were superstitious and deeply religious; far more afraid of offending any one of a hundred gods than they were of insulting the upstart King of Rome. Romulus devised a brilliant strategy that played upon this religious fervor. The King decided to use the feast of Consualia, held in honor of Neptune each year, to bring all the Sabine women we would need to Rome.

  A large field had been cleared among the olive groves that spread out just below the city. It was on this grassy plain that the army exercised, honing their skills in endless war games. This same “Field of Mars” was used each spring for the festival of Consualia. Tents were set up; a miniature city grew up overnight.

  Invitations were sent to all the Latin peoples, and they came in droves. In this festive atmosphere, men brought their families: women and children. And of course, we scanned the hordes of visitors, always on the alert for the most desirable womenfolk. It mattered not if she were a sturdy peasant girl who would make an agreeable wife for one of our soldier-farmers, or a high born lady, the sleek, attractive female from some minor aristocracy, destined to become the prized possession of one of our nobles. Young and old, wives and daughters, mistresses and concubines, even nubile slave girls, well-trained to please their wealthy masters, were all carefully studied with avid interest by the female-starved race of warriors that looked down upon the parade of visitors from their vantage point high atop the walls of Rome.

  It was a brilliant day. A smiling sun shone down on the waiting throng, as Cletus, our chief priest, mounted a high wooden altar to stand flanked between two torches. In his dark fringe-lined toga, he appeared solemn and full of self-importance as he announced that, just as the Greeks were able to put aside their petty quarrels to come together in the spirit of the games, all able-bodied men would this year be asked to surrender their arms. They would be held in safe-keeping in one of the tents for the duration of the games.

  Now, it was well known that at these annual festivals, the wine flowed freely, and petty quarrels inevitably broke out between our hot-blooded neighbors, usually with bloody consequences. Fights over women were common. And the mutual suspicion in which the states held each other, was not helped by the spirited games where rival champions were cheered on by excited and well-lubricated fans who had wagered heavily on their favorites. Cletus, Romulus’ favorite priest, now informed the masses that such drunken brawls in which bones were broken and blood spilt, were profane to the honored god in whom name the festival was held. (A novel idea, I thought.) And to my astonishment, although not without a great deal of grumbling—the men grudgingly complied! Cletus waited until all the arms had been collected, and then with a sly smile, pronounced the official opening words: “Let the Games Begin!”

  First up were the games—athletic contests that had become quite popular among our peoples wherein young men from the various tribes competed in trails of strength, speed, and agility. In keeping with the Greek tradition, the youthful athletes appeared for the contests totally nude, their hard sinewy bodies oiled, so that they gleamed in the afternoon sun as they paraded around before us.

  They slowly marched in a single line to circle a dusty square, roped off as the arena for combat, and crowded with spectators on all four sides. The contestants were smiling and waving to the cheering crowd. There was a definite ripple of excitement that passed through the women in audience when the darkly handsome men of the Roman contingent strode by with their usual swagger, grinning and blowing kisses to their female admirers.

  Part 3

  SPECTATOR SPORTS

  Still, I was paying little attention to those strutting exhibitionists, as my interest was inevitably drawn to the reactions of the women in the audience. My eye was caught by a bevy of delightful Sabine girls near the front row. They were crowded around two nobles seated on a low cushioned bench. I recognized the Sabine chieftain, an officious fussbudget named Tatius. To his left, sat an elegant lady of breathtaking beauty. In the midst of excitement, she maintained her poise, erect and serene, as if a little remote from the press of the rabble all around her. She might be nothing more than the consort of a petty chieftain, yet she held herself with the regal bearing of a queen. This could only be Cataluna—the Queen of the Sabines. A woman whose beauty was legendary. I studied her aristocratic features: those lovely eyes, the precisely etched lips, high cheekbones that gave that proud face a sculpted look.

  Her long and slender body was draped in a loose shift of fine-spun linen that fell to her ankles. The narrow gown was slit up the sides to allow freedom of movement, and not incidentally an enticing glimpse of those exquisite legs of hers. I noticed that Tatius had laid his bony ringed figures on the lady’s right thigh with a proprietary air, but she ignored his crude impertinence, reserving all her attention for the parade of naked men who now stood in a loose circle saluting the crowd.

  For the next hour or so we were treated to various games—races, jumping contests, gymnastics, and the like. We watched the men straining and struggling in the hot sun, their well-oiled bodies glistening and sheened with sweat, locked in contests at which we Romans excelled. All of our able bodied men followed a regimen of physical fitness that began upon entering the army at age sixteen, and lasted throughout life, so many blue ribbons were to adorn Rome’s banner that day.

  It was when the wrestlers took the field that a trill of girlish laugher turned my attention to a flock of eager and excited young women nudging each other, snickering, and pointing in the most ribald manner. The object of their interest was one of our champions, Maximus, whose nickname in the army was “Penis Longa.” The masculine equipment this stalwart displayed was oversized by any measure, one might even say, grotesque. And he made the most of his attributes by the way he strode wide-legged, letting it all sway before him. I glanced at Cataluna and saw a wicked gleam in her eyes and a thin smile on her lips. Tatius looked sour; his pinched face scowling.

  A shrieking whoop came from the bevy of lightly-dressed girls, and I noticed one who was bouncing lightly on her tiptoes, flushed, and clapping her hands in girlish glee as Maximus acknowledged the accolades with a friendly wave. She and her sisters were clumped in the outer circle, a few rows back from where the high born nobles had ensconced themselves. Lithe and small breasted, she wore a thin Greek-style tunic that left her youthful arms and legs quite bare, and she had her shiny chestnut hair drawn back in a perky ponytail. As I stared at her, she happened to turn and our eyes met. She smiled.

  I felt drawn to the pretty girl with the come-hither smile, which I took as an invitation. I moved over to be closer to this pert Sabine maiden. Edging up, I placed myself no more than a few inches behind her slight body and from there I could gaze down at her narrow shoulders, bare fragile shoulders looped with the thin straps of the tunic, and that neat ponytail which hung down only inches from my admiring eyes. I felt my penis stirring under my thin kilt. Scarcely daring to breathe, I widened my stance and waited for a surge in the crowd that would squeeze our congested bodies together. Then, at the moment when her soft bottom was inevitably pressed back into my loins, she turned to glance up over her shoulder. Her big brown eyes seemed to flicker with recognition, and she gave me a decidedly pleased smile.

  There was a roar from the crowd as two wrestlers, one a muscular, long-armed guy from Arcia fell into the crouch of a bi
g cat as he looked for an opening to close with a barrel-chested Remurian with a powerful build and a remarkably small penis, who scuttled around cautiously just outside his reach.

  When my girl turned back to watch in rapt fascination as the two naked men grappled on the dusty field, I screwed up my courage and pressed my hips boldly forward bringing my thinly-clad erection into solid contact with her girlish bottom. And to my great delight the little minx, while never taking her wide eyes off the sweating men, wiggled her impertinent little ass back against me!

  Thus began our own secret game, played within the game that was unfolding before us as the two wrestlers were now down on all fours. The Arcian was bent over under the weight of the heavier Remurian who arched over his back his thick arms locked around his opponent’s heaving chest. The girl gasped and a hand flew to her gaping mouth as the nude wrestlers became a grunting beast with two backs.

  I rubbed up against her, wiggled my hips letting my little Sabine get the full measure of my expanded cock against her thinly-clad bottom. She arched back against me, and a hand came back to clasp my thigh, as if to brace herself.

  Then, wonder of wonders, that stealthy hand snaked between our tightly pressed bodies, the fingers groping blindly for my tented manhood. And when my Sabine vixen found my rock-hard penis, she closed on me and abruptly squeezed.

  The brazen move tore a groan from my lips, causing our closely packed neighbors to give me a curious look. I managed a weak smile for the closest girlfriends, as the pressure of those gripping fingers eased—although they never totally gave up the prize she so obviously coveted.

  My new playmate took a moment to fondle me through kilt and loincloth, then withdrew her wicked hand. By now I was hot, and eager to return the favor. I slipped a hand down to cup the girl’s pert rearend, moving my hand over her thinly clad ass, giving her a squeeze through her skirt, then sliding the sheer fabric over that tight-cheeked young bottom.