The General's Virgin Slave

by Georgia Fox

  He was soaked through from the rain and so hungry his stomach hurt. Still the day had turned out better than it began several hours ago. The rebels were successfully stopped. For now.

  And Marcus had a new pet to lift his mood.

  He walked through the atrium, helmet under one arm, and thought again of the sun he missed, the home and family so far away. It was true, it seemed, that absence made the heart grow fonder, for if he could go back there today and feel the sun on his shoulders he would even tolerate his mother's endless attempts to find him a bride.

  Although he'd reminded her, many times, that he could not take a wife while he remained a soldier, his loving mother had an uncanny ability to fall deaf to his protests.

  "A soldier must serve twenty-five years," he had reminded her the last time he was home. "When I retire I will have my own plot of land from the Emperor. You shall be proud of me then."

  "But you will be forty," she moped, gazing up at him forlornly. "I may not live to see your children born."

  He hated to break the news to her, but he wasn't sure he ever would marry. His brothers could fulfill that need for her, but Marcus saw no need for it. Why should he commit himself to one pussy when there were so many he could serve with his magnificence? He had a bed slave for every night of the month— not that he used them as often as he should, especially lately. But it was what folk expected of Marcus Cassius the Invincible. He had a reputation to maintain and he had no intention of putting himself out to grass yet. So the last time he saw his mother he had pacified her as best he could. "You will live to a fine old age, and I'll still be capable of giving you grandchildren at forty, fifty or sixty, worry not."

  "What if you do not come back? What if—"

  "Madre, I am invincible. You know that." And then he would smile cockily and complain of hunger, making her worries turn to his stomach and what she could feed him with immediately.

  Marcus Cassius the Invincible. Made so by his mother's cooking. Certainly, she must put something in her recipes that made him grow tall and strong. The army took him at the age of fifteen because of his size and strength. By twenty he made Centurion, by twenty-three he was a Centurion Cohort. He made Primus Pilate three years ago at only twenty-seven. He had ten more years yet to serve, but his career had been fast-moving, taking him from one end of the empire to the other— now to this gloomy outpost, Britannia.

  Marcus Cassius was one of the most trusted, respected, capable commanders in the Emperor's army. He had earned a reputation for being ruthless, relentless. Of never giving up.

  But today, while caught in the midst of a gloomy mood, he had let a small woman with pink toenails and no pubic hair hold him at bay with one word.

  Virgin.

  Good thing no one else had witnessed that, he thought, bemused. His mother would say he wasn't eating enough.

  When he strolled out to his bath, slaves were waiting to unbuckle his cuirass and then his shin guards. He slipped off his padded leather vest, his sandals and finally his linen tunic. At once two female slaves came forward to join him in his bath, but he waved them off.

  He would save himself for his virgin, Marcus thought with a wry smile, as she had saved herself. For him.

  * * * *

  She was scrubbed from head to toe, steamed like a lobster, doused in cool, scented water and then rubbed dry with towels. Hands were all over her and she could not defend herself from the prying. Young women washed, combed and braided her hair with thin gold thread. Their work was overseen by a stout, handsome, older woman with a forbidding frown. She inspected Amanda with stern curiosity, looking into every nook and cranny.

  "Where are you from, girl?"

  "You wouldn't even believe it," she muttered in reply, backing away from the woman's prying fingers.

  "I see. You are fortunate, girl, the general has given the command that you should not be whipped. He wishes to keep your skin preserved. Otherwise you would be dealt a punishment for answering me in such a fashion."

  "I didn't mean to be rude. It's just that...really...you wouldn't believe it."

  The woman's eyes narrowed. "You are not from this island, I know that."

  "Oh, but I am. Just not from this time."

  This comment was ignored. "I know you are not native to this land, girl, because I am."

  Amanda was intrigued. Was this woman one of the Iceni or some other tribe? She had read extensively about the Roman invasion and how some of the natives gave up fighting and adjusted to the culture of their conquerors. "So now you work for the Romans. Doesn't that make you a traitor to your own people?"

  For that she received a hard slap across the face. "The Romans have been good for this country. They have brought civilization and wealth to the land."

  "While slaughtering and raping the native people."

  "They have brought peace. I am proud to serve General Marcus Cassius." The woman brought her hand up again for another slap, but suddenly the old man who was apparently the master of slaves appeared through an arch.

  "What are you doing, woman?" he barked. "You know the general's orders."

  The heavy-handed face-slapper backed away, muttering sourly, "She is a spy, I have no doubt. She as much as admitted it to me just now. She must have been sent here by one of the warring tribes to cause trouble. The master will need eyes in the back of his head with her. She is mouthy, insolent and speaks out against the Romans. She will betray him."

  "Enough, Julia. Your opinion is not sought. Lay a cross hand upon her again and I shall inform the general."

  The other young female slaves had clustered around Amanda, whispering to each other, but now the woman, Julia, clicked her fingers and they followed her out with their heads bowed.

  "Thank you," she said to the old man, as she rubbed her cheek.

  He looked at her with misty eyes and sniffed. "Do not thank me, slave. Thank the general who decreed you were not to be hurt or marked." He gestured for her to follow him into another chamber and she went slowly.

  "I am not a spy for any tribe," she assured him. "I don't even know how I got here. Clearly that woman took an instant dislike to me and was just trying to get me into hot water already."

  The old slave-master gave a wry smirk. "The jealousy of women is a weapon far more lethal than the gladius."

  "Jealousy?"

  He sighed. "The general keeps a great many women here. A great many. And since he has taken to sleeping alone, it seems he thinks I need the extra work of keeping peace betwixt the restless masses."

  "But how could she be jealous of me?"

  He answered flatly, "Because you are beautiful."

  "Me?" She snorted.

  "Lie here, slave." He had taken her to a cushioned table and now with a clap of his wizened hands he summoned two handsome, young male slaves who began to massage her body thoroughly with almond oil.

  Much to Amanda's reluctance, she quite enjoyed it. Their hands were smooth and lithe, running up and down her legs, lightly squeezing her bottom as she lay on her front with her head on her arms. Even when she felt their fingers slip between her legs and touch her sex, she only jumped a little. She hadn't realized how much her legs ached from running through the forest, but now she was weary and grateful for the chance to lie down. The comfortable heat of the room and the sweet spice of the burning incense, combined with gentle music played nearby on a lyre, made her drowsy.

  There were so many questions she had to ask, but they faded from her thoughts. It was as if she'd been hooked up to an IV of morphine. Everything was good now, some of it even amusing. Whatever had happened to her, she was being treated like a precious museum exhibit at that moment. Later, when she saw that big-headed general again, she'd make another effort to get him to understand. Unfortunately, when he ripped her costume off in the forest, he left it behind with her phone, the one item that linked her to real time. Getting him to believe where she'd come from was going to be bloody—

  Ooh, those hands were masterful.
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  Amanda's muscles relaxed and her mind followed suit. Her stomachache was gone, so perhaps it wasn't the herald of her period after all. It may just have been nerves, tension. She didn't like ...what? She couldn't remember anymore what it was that she'd been anxious about in that other world.

  She had a whole other set of problems now. Not that they felt like problems at the moment.

  No one had ever called her "beautiful" before and the old man had said it so matter-of-factly. As if she should have known.

  When she felt something soft and wet touching her pussy, she sighed with sleepy delight. Strong hands pressed her legs wider apart and gripped her ankles, then that small, moist object moved over her pussy lips with faster, firmer strokes until she felt those naughty waves gathering again deep inside. She lifted her bottom slightly, but hands still held her ankles down on the table, so she could not go far.

  Amanda twisted to look over her shoulder and saw one of the male slaves kneeling on the table between her legs. It was his skilled mouth and tongue that administered this caress.

  Shocked to find a stranger licking her pussy, she cried out in drowsy protest, but no one stopped him, or came to her aid. The male slave closed his eyes, slipping his tongue a little way inside her, where he wriggled the tip until she felt that delicious tension knotting inside her cunt, her muscles clenching with pleasure.

  The slaves gathered around the table smiled down at her. They patted her on the bottom and stoked her hair.

  "Parvum venustus."

  She thought that Parvum meant small and... something?

  Well, she'd certainly never been called small either. She might start enjoying this alternate universe after all if her size was considered small here, she thought drily.

  "Good. Slave," one of them said, making an effort in her own tongue, beaming down at her. "Much. Pleasure. Give. Master. Parvum theca."

  "Theca?"

  They conferred with each another and then one of the men cupped her sex in the palm of his hand. "Vagina. So small. Our Master, fortunatus."

  So much for being flattered! "I'm glad you said our, because he's not my master," she yelled. They were complimenting her on her damned vagina, after all. In their eyes that was all she was.

  "You pleasure him give," they insisted politely.

  "A knife in the gut, that's what I'll give him if he touches me again!"

  They merely smiled and nodded. Amanda sat up and swung her legs off the padded table, but she could not get far. One of them still held the end of her chain.

  Frustrated, she reached up and felt the bronze collar. She had a feeling this wasn't the sort of ring Beyonce had in mind when she sang about putting one on "it".

  * * * *

  He had just begun to get impatient when they brought her to him. Laid on a couch, he was enjoying a gustatio of eggs, fish, bread, cheese and olives, but by far his most anticipated course this evening was the virgin.

  And she was even more beautiful than he had realized before. Now, with the blue paint and the dirt washed off her, she glowed as if a ray of sun swept down through those grey, gloomy clouds and touched her. The slave master had dressed her in a short toga of diaphanous cloth, but Marcus wanted her naked. He gestured briskly with one hand and the garment was instantly removed.

  Much to his amusement, the woman covered her pubic mound with one hand and her breasts with the other.

  "Why do you hide your beauty?" he demanded, sitting up. "Your body is lush treasure for my eyes. Yet you act as if you are ashamed to show it."

  "Lush?" she snapped. "Is that what you call it?"

  "You do not like this word, Feral Princess?"

  "Most people would say plump, or chubby."

  "And you like these words better?"

  She looked confused, irritated. He was trying to understand her, but it seemed as if his attempt only annoyed her more.

  Marcus beckoned and the slave-master led her to him, then handed her chain over. "The virgin slave has been cleansed, master, as you desired."

  "Excellent." His balls were heavy, his shaft already hardened again, as he admired his new possession. Her quim was blush pink, her belly softly rounded, her breasts two splendidly full pears with rosy, tantalizing nipples. She held her head high, but with anger still. "And I shall call her...Axa." It seemed fitting, he mused, for she was certainly warlike.

  "My name," she shouted, "is Amanda Adams."

  "Whatever your tribe called you before this, now you are Axa. Axa Cassius." He would make her understand that she was his now and therefore whatever her life was before he found her, that was gone. "Sit." With his free hand he pointed to the ground at his feet. "I shall explain to you the duties of my bed slave."

  "Bed slave?" Her eyes widened and then she covered them with both hands, shaking her head so that the chain rattled. "This is madness. I have to wake up. Oh, god, I have to wake up!"

  He jerked on her leash and she stumbled, hands going to her collar.

  "Sit," he barked, for she tried his patience. He began to fear she might be mad, touched in the brain. One never could tell with these natives. "Kneel at my feet, Axa. Or Flavian, my slave-master, will use the flagellum." He didn't want her skin marked, but he had to threaten her regardless, or else she might expect to get away with her defiance.

  He looked over at the slave-master and nodded. Flavian made a performance of unhooking the whip from his belt and showing it to the girl. Hopefully she wouldn't be able to tell how rarely it was used in that house.

  A strange look passed over her face. Her cheeks were pale and sucked in, her lips held tight. She finally lowered herself to kneel on the mosaic floor. But Marcus knew, from the sultry gleam in her clear green eyes that she was not yet done fighting him.

  "Axa," he said sternly.

  She did not look at him for she still watched the flagellum.

  Marcus tugged on her chain. "Axa."

  "Ouch!" That got her attention again, her hands going back up to the collar.

  "Open your mouth."

  The flames spat and sizzled in her eyes. "Why?"

  "Axa, a slave does not ask questions. A slave obeys all things asked of her."

  She must have seen Flavian step closer with the whip in hand, so she opened her lips with a tense sigh and muttered, "I'll wake up soon anyway, so fine. Whatever."

  Marcus ran a fingertip over her teeth, bottom and then top. "Yes, you are fine, Axa." Very good, clean and preserved. This suggested she did indeed come from a family of some prestige within the native hierarchy. Such as it was. She must have eaten well and plentifully throughout her life and learned some cleansing habits, at least.

  He took a pitted olive from the platter and fed it to her, placing it carefully on the end of her tongue. She closed her lips and glared up at him. For a moment he thought she would spit it at him, but she slowly chewed and then swallowed.

  The feeding continued with bread and a piece of soft cheese that he made her lick from his fingertips.

  "You were hungry, Axa?"

  She said nothing, but her gaze darted sideways to the full platter. He laughed.

  So amusing she was, trying to hide things with her face and lips, while her eyes revealed every thought to him. "If you are a good slave, Axa, I will give you a pillow to kneel upon tomorrow."

  "Lucky me," she retorted, her tone sullen.

  Marcus cupped her chin in his hand and raised it. "Yes, you are most fortunate. I have selected you to dine at my side and sleep in my bed. Do you know who I am?"

  "Nope. I can't even begin to imagine. Yet," she chuckled scornfully, "somehow I must have, mustn't I? Or you wouldn't be here."

  "I am Marcus Cassius, Primus Pilus. You are now my property and you will address me as Master or General."

  "I can't call you Marcus?"

  He'd never heard his name on a slave's lips before. It sounded...too intimate. "No!" He sat back, still holding her chain."What is the name of your tribe, woman?"

  She seemed to think
about this for a moment. "Adams, I suppose."

  "I have never heard of them."

  "No, you wouldn't have."

  "Why? They hide like spies, eh?"

  "God, no!" She laughed lightly and shook her hair back from her face. "Not my family. They're loud, clumsy and generally drink too much. I'm afraid they wouldn't make very good spies." Suddenly she seemed to forget what she was saying. Her gaze had landed on his shoulder and upper arm as he reached for bread. It was not the timid, shy glance of a slave. It was a look of admiration. Bold and unabashed admiration.

  Tonight he wore a simple, sleeveless tunic of linen. It was always a relief to remove all that armor and relax in the comfort of his own triclinium. On this occasion, in the company of his brand new slave, Marcus felt more at ease than usual. However, he found that her green-eyed appreciation of his muscles caused tension in at least one body part.

  "You have a lot of scars," she muttered.

  He thought about not responding, but she seemed so interested that he couldn't resist boasting. "Yes. I have fought many campaigns across the empire."

  He offered the bread to her and she took it slowly, staring at his hand. Her lashes swept down and then up again, her pupils dilated, her cheeks softly, charmingly colored. Once more her gaze traversed the length of his broad arm to his flexing shoulder.

  "You admire the brand upon my arm, Axa?" It was not like Marcus Cassius to flirt and tease, but he was in an odd mood. And he liked the way she looked at the mark tattooed on his arm. When her fingertips strayed across the letters, he felt his cock stretch under his tunic. The organ was still annoyed with him, of course, for not letting it have this woman earlier today.

  "SPQR," she read softly. "I never knew whether Roman soldiers were really marked like that."

  "Not all. Some." When he flexed the muscle, she withdrew her fingers as if they were burned. He sat up straighter, chest out. "The best."

  "Oh, of course," she laughed again, biting into the bread he'd given her. "I have no doubt that you are the best, Marc—Master."