by Circe Ridley
GIVEN TO THE GLADIATOR: THE VILLA BUNDLE
HISTORICAL INTERRACIAL EROTICA BUNDLE
BY
CIRCE RIDLEY
A SMALL OUTTAKE…
He leant down and kissed her neck with slow, deliberate moves. Her back arched as he moved downward and she couldn’t help but shudder, the experienced, strong man controlling the naïve olive-skinned virgin completely. She saw the fire cast shadows on their skin as their breaths grew heavier and as he went lower down her chest. Finally, he sucked one of her nipples in his mouth and she couldn’t help but let out a long groan. He pulled at the nipple hard, swirling his tongue on it in long circular motions and making the girl squirm in his lap. The pain was delicious and Mira felt like she would soon drown in her own juices.
She had only pleasured herself a few times, mostly after seeing orgies and having to tend to the patrons basking in the afterglow. She hadn’t quite found the blossom within herself yet, but it seemed very certain that this man would teach her things that she had seen but never thought she would enjoy experiencing. As he continued toying with her breasts, his hands shifted lower and slinked under Mira’s dress. She exhaled sharply as those rough hands caressed her thighs, moving closer to her heat. Her body was on edge and she kept pushing herself into him more, even though there had not been any space between them for a while now. Her fingers dug into his hair as he finally dipped between her legs, his fingers carefully feeling her warm, wet slit.
She thought she would collapse in ecstasy right there and then, but he had other plans for her.
Copyright © 2014 Circe Ridley
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and any resemblance to any persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Given to the Gladiator: The Villa Bundle
Historical Interracial Erotic Bundle
All rights reserved.
No part of this work may be used, reproduced, transmitted in any form or by any means by anyone but the purchaser for their own personal use. This book may not be reproduced in any form without the express written permission of Circe Ridley. Any reproduction or other unauthorized use of the material is prohibited without the express written permission of the author.
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TABLE OF CONTENTS
A SMALL OUTTAKE…
GIVEN TO THE GLADIATOR: HER FIRST TIME
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
GIVEN TO THE GLADIATOR: TAKEN BY THE ROMANS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
RELATED BOOKS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
GIVEN TO THE GLADIATOR: HER FIRST TIME
HISTORICAL INTERRACIAL EROTICA
BY
CIRCE RIDLEY
CHAPTER ONE
The wind was blowing loudly outside the thick walls of the villa, stirring up dust and weeds from the courtyard. The sun had set long ago and brooding clouds were now alone to roam the deserted skies, tumbling and churning menacingly while throwing an errant lightning bolt every now and then. The roar of thunder could be heard miles away and the mood had turned somber all across the path of the storm. The weather had been wretched since the surprise triumphant win in the arena the day before, the sudden tempest looked upon as an act of anger from the Gods. The whole town was shaken by the happenings and it was the hot topic on the tip of everyone’s tongue, wild speculations and fears being tossed in every which way.
The city of Alexandria had always enjoyed its games, its munera, between skilled fighters and they had been looked forward to with great anticipation. A similar fate had befallen the most recent games, but the pinnacle of the fourth day of the games had not ended quite as expected. Under the shocked eyes of thousands of prominent onlookers, the beloved champion, the great gladiator Sennicus, had been brutally beaten by a man who was considered little more than meat for the grinder. Sennicus had been pitted against three lesser men as a show of supremacy. He was expected to strike them down with little effort. Perhaps he would allow one to live in benevolent mercy, but even this was not expected as Sennicus was known throughout Rome as a brutal competitor. He had never given an inch where it was his to give and no man had managed to cause him more pain than the slightest of cuts or bruises.
Yet all of this was destined to change and the great man was to be reduced to a shadow of his former glory in mere minutes. The fight had begun with the usual fanfare and declarations of might and power. The consul had made a speech, thanking the Gods for blessing the games with their presence and thanking the lanistas, the owners of the ludi for participating with their fine men. Sennicus had stood silently in the middle of the large arena, holding his scutum in one hand and a sword in the other. The large shield stood from the ground to his chest, the shaped and adorned metal glinting in the evening sun. His rivals were nowhere to be seen, hidden away in their small cells under the stands to be released when the speech ended.
As the consul finished his speech and sat down, the thick bars in front of the cells were raised and the three men stormed out towards Sennicus. They knew well that their only chance to see another sunrise lay in slaying the great gladiator, and though there was little hope that they would succeed, desperation makes men do whatever it takes to keep their lives. Two of them were simple scoundrels, men of notable strength but set to serve punishment for past deeds in the arena. The third, however, was a gladiator named Doran. He was little known but had survived a few fights before. Despite of that, his master clearly didn’t think him valuable enough to keep him from the ring that day, where he was meant to be a sacrifice for the great show.
Doran had lagged behind as the other two charged ahead and he watched as Sennicus cut them down with little effort, prolonging their suffering only long enough for the people to get their amusement. He made quick work of them, first incapacitating them with a few expert jabs as they collided with his shield, then taunting them while the onlookers howled with joy. Sennicus finally cut one open from his chin to his hips and beheaded the other. The crowd had erupted in cheer and Sennicus had paused to enjoy his triumph, raising his shield and sword up into the air. At that very moment, Doran’s blade cut into his side, drawing blood. The clamoring yells fell silent immediately and the people watched with bated breath as the two men fell into a vicious battle, steel meeting steel.
The man thrown to the wolves showed himself as a formidable fighter and soon Sennicus’s shield was hurled face-down on the sand, the man needing all his might to wield the sword against the unforeseen rival. They battled mightily, both causing the other cuts and wounds, until another lucky moment was awarded to Doran. Sennicus, having been pushed across the arena, tripped over his heavy shield and fell on his back. In a desperate effort he raised his sword, but Doran was too fast and the tip of the challenger’s blade pierced Sennicus’s chest. Seconds later the sword had plunged into his ribcage and the man sputtered his last bloody breath under the eyes of thousands of devoted fans.
The arena was completely silent for the blink of an eye before it erupted in confused cheers and wails, half of the crowd rejoicing with the surprise winner and the other lamenting the loss of the
great warrior. Doran stood in the middle, silent and bloodied, his sword lowered and his head held high. The very moment that Sennicus had drawn his last breath was when the first pitch of wind roared across the arena and dark clouds had started gathering over Alexandria. It seemed certain that the Gods did not approve of how the games had ended and the crowd dispersed quickly. There had been no ceremony to finish the spectacle and the consul had been one of the first to leave the monolithic stone stadium, followed by his advisors and wife. Doran had been escorted back to his cell by wary guards, to later be returned to his master.
Knowing all of this, Mira couldn’t help but feel like a lamb being sent to slaughter.
CHAPTER TWO
Gaius Julius, the lanista of Ludus Julianicus and the owner and master of Doran, had found himself in a peculiar situation. On one hand his gladiator had won the biggest victory in the ludus’s history and on the other hand he should have been immediately slain for taking the life of one of the most beloved men in Rome. Weighing his options, the man had seemed to settle on a point somewhere between the two until it was clearer what should be done with the unlikely champion. Doran had since been kept in a closed off room near the training quarters at the villa with the handlers strictly being told to not allow the man to roam free.
It was custom to reward a gladiator with wine and women of his choosing after a successful battle and some traditions were not allowed to be broken. Gaius Julius had ordered one of the servants to be taken to Doran to amuse and distract him and the straw had not favored Mira this time. The dark-haired ethnic girl had been unlucky in the draw and it was her that was now destined to be given to Doran for a night of pleasure. She wasn’t sure whether she was supposed to be petrified with fear or not. When she had learned that the fates had chosen her, then her first reaction was to think back if she had done something that would warrant such questionable fortune. The whole situation was as perplexing as Doran’s win itself.
Mira was a maid working in the villa to serve the lady of the house. She had been kept pure and unsullied by men as only untouched girl were allowed to tend to the lady. However, the time came for every girl to become a woman at one point and it was now time for her to make the leap. Girls who had been given to the gladiators or other men of the household were usually moved to other serving positions so it was not a great loss as far as standing in the house was considered. It also opened up more opportunities for earthly pleasures that otherwise were out of reach, with treasured beauties being used in orgies and other sensual acts.
The olive-skinned beauty had witnessed these celebrations of flesh several times and she would be lying if she claimed that they did not excite her. There was something about the thirst and need for another’s touch that tugged at her and when she had stood by watching the acts, she had always found herself getting wet with excitement and her throat drying up. So while there was certain trepidation in being given to a man who may or may not be despised by the Gods for his unsavory deeds, she couldn’t help but feel a twinge of anticipation at the pit of her stomach. Perhaps it was the curiosity of youth to want to feel something that so far had been just a fantasy to be indulged during moments of loneliness, but whatever the cause Mira was currently thoroughly conflicted.
She had said her tearful good-byes with the two other handmaidens earlier in the day when the bathers had come to her quarters to prepare her for her evening. They had washed her in rose-scented water and rubbed luscious oils into her skin, while candles burned and threw dancing shadows on the white walls and the marbled stone on the floor. Mira had constantly gone between being giddy with excitement and near tears with trepidation. The two women tasked to wash her kept calming her down by sharing their own experiences or offering words of encouragement, both of which seemed to do the trick.
“Will it hurt?” she asked at one point, when her hair was being braided by the deft fingers of one of the servants. The older woman had nodded quietly and patted her on the shoulder.
“Less every time, with every moment. Or perhaps you learn to enjoy the pain. It is a means to an end.”
When she was oiled and scented, prepped and prepared, she had finally been walked down to the gladiators’ quarters. They had had to navigate a complex web of corridors, lit by torches with barely a window in sight. Mira had been left by the servants about half-way there and trusted to the care of one of the guards, who took her further down. The woman who had plaited her hair had squeezed her hand before leaving. Mira wanted to wrap her clothes tighter around herself as she carried on further, but there was little to cover her as the linen dress clasped at her shoulder with a bronze pin did little more than conceal her modesty.
The dungeon, for lack of a better word, was musty and reeked of men and sweat. The shadows on the stone walls loomed ominously and Mira covered her nose with her hand in an attempt to ignore the smell, but to little use. Her steps echoed behind the guard’s, who seemed more bored than anything to escort a trembling nubile maiden into the arms of a mighty warrior. Every now and then she could hear someone cough or shuffle about in the rooms she was passing, but it was all surprisingly quiet, as if the gloomy weather had dragged down the mood in the ludus. She figured that the morose silence may have stemmed from the air of uncertainty about the whole of Gaius Julius’s villa. Usually victories were won and defeats were lost, but in this case it wasn’t quite certain what emotion should be felt and what consequences there might be.
Their silent trek came to a sudden halt in front of a door much like any other that they had passed. The guard gave her a knowing nod and then sidestepped her, heading back to his post to most likely glare at a wall and wait to be relieved. Mira stood there in the dank hallway for a few moments, staring blankly at the heavy wooden door that separated her from the Beast of Alexandria. She could hear her heartbeat pounding in her ears and goose bumps rose on her skin. Her hand rose slowly from her side and she knocked on the door, two light rasps that she could barely distinguish. She almost thought that the man on the other side didn’t hear them, but suddenly the door flung wide open and bathed the girl in the warm light of a fire.
Mira looked up and barely suppressed a yelp as the stern, silent figure of Doran towered above her.
What have I gotten myself in to?
CHAPTER THREE
The warmth from the room wafted over Mira as Doran stepped aside to allow her entrance. She hesitated but willed her legs to budge and stepped in. The door fell shut with a thud behind her and she was nailed to place. She didn’t have the courage to peek around the room other than what was right in front of her. His quarters were certainly not grand. The ceilings were low and the small fire was just hot enough to warm the room and cast light over it. She couldn’t see a single candle. His bed was wide enough to allow him to rest comfortably, but nothing else. There were no weapons in the room as scuffles often broke loose between men in such tight arrangements. A bucket of water stood beside a footstool, surrounded by bloody rags. At the sight of the blood-soaked cloths, Mira could feel something tugging at her heart and her expression went soft.
The girl spun around to face Doran, worry and compassion evident on her face. He was still standing beside the door, seemingly considering his options wordlessly. Mira took a harder look at him, studying his injuries in the glint of the crackling fire. He had made it out without too much damage to himself, though there were deep cuts to his arms and legs and he was covered in bruises. They were obvious even under the large tattoos that covered one arm. Instinctively, she stepped closer to him and carefully lifted the edge of one of the bandages. It was thrown on haphazardly and as soon as Mira touched it, she could see the man cringe ever so slightly. It was beginning to fester and obviously caused him pain.
“Let me help,” she murmured, her voice the barest whisper as she led the man by his hand to the chair. It all seemed so natural and he didn’t resist her obvious compassion, following the girl willingly if with a bit of surprise. His hands were large and calloused due
to long days training and fighting, but Mira noticed how gently he gripped hers. This giant of a man, compared to her small stature, seemed to be as docile as a slumbering bear. Her stomach churned slightly as he sat down and let go of her hand, the girl feeling as if that smallest of touches had ignited something in her that she hadn’t expected.
Doran allowed her to take the bandage off and clean his wound, the red cloth falling to the ground beside him. She could feel his eyes on her as she worked diligently, but his gaze did not feel lewd or unwanted. Mira found herself straightening her back and being mindful of her hair even as she worked at a task that was far from sensual. She blushed as it dawned on her that she was hoping with bated breath that he would like her, though of course it would not matter if he enjoyed her company or not. She was his to take no matter what.
When Mira tied the fresh bandage down around his arm and looked up, she was met by his deep brown eyes. She was transfixed, the emotion and vulnerability that she could see in his eyes a stark contrast to how he looked. He was a large, powerful man, molded by tireless years of fighting and training to become the best in the arena. He had dark hair and a straight nose, complemented by a strong chin. On first glance he looked like nothing more than a simple brute, but there was a certain handsomeness to him if one could see under the scars and bruises. The way he looked at her was what made her heart sing, though. She had been ogled and stared at by men many a time in her life, but never had she seen thankfulness and sensitivity in them the way she could see in him.
