by April Hill
"You'll do as you bloody wish of course, but I would not advise it," he warned. "You'll break nothing other than your stupid ass, or perhaps an arm, after which I will be forced to paddle you as you have never been paddled before–for spoiling my forsythias."
But I digress. The point of the above story was that until I married Edward, I had never seen the male member in any condition–certainly not tumescent. Thus, my wedding night was not only lovely in the extreme, but highly educational. I believe my curiosity and need to explore the anatomical details were something of a shock to Edward (but not, he confessed later, unpleasantly so).
The point being, that although I had heard it suggested that the male instrument varies in size, I had no personal experience by which to measure male endowment other than my husband's. (At Edward's suggestion, I would like to add here, that there is nothing at all amiss with Edward, and in fact he is quite… Well, never mind.)
Immediately after the parade, Edward ushered Marcella and myself into a private dressing room, then returned to his seat in the bleachers. I wasn't particularly eager to watch the bloodletting, but the tiny room was dark and smelled of sweat, and I began to complain immediately. Whereupon, I discovered that I had a good friend in young Marcella.
"If I help you," she said slyly, "will you return the favor?"
It seemed that innocent young Marcella had a sweetheart–a groom for one of the other gladiators in Maximus's troupe. A bargain was quickly made. Marcella would lend me some more appropriate clothing and a small amount of money to spend in the market, and in return, I would not mention her planned assignation (in a nearby dressing room) with the handsome young gentleman of her dreams. She pulled a lovely white silk toga from her large leather bag and a set of combs.
"When I've finished, you will look like any other young woman out shopping for trinkets," she promised me. "Now, sit down while I fix your hair."
Twenty minutes later, after I'd promised solemnly to be back within two hours, Marcella led me to the front gate and pressed a small purse of coins into my palm. "You must be careful not to speak to anyone," she cautioned. "Pretend shyness, if you must." She rolled her eyes. "If we are caught in this, we risk Maximus' wrath–and that is something we will both very much regret."
I had no intention of speaking to anyone, or of getting caught. All I wanted to do was to wander among the fascinating shops for a while, and take in the grime, if not the glory, of ancient Rome.
* * * *
I had a wonderful time in the teeming marketplace and scrupulously avoided speaking to anyone, even during the purchase of a piece of fruit at one stall and a small bracelet at another. I was quite proud of myself, actually–until I tried to find my way back to the amphitheater.
To say I was lost was hardly adequate to describe my situation. Streets led in every imaginable direction, crowded with shoppers and the occasional Roman soldier–three of whom whistled at me, and one of whom pinched me in a very private place. The good news was that none of them seemed to think I was a criminal or a spy, nor tried to arrest me.
I wandered up and down every alleyway, and when I became desperate, even tried asking directions in my abysmal Latin, which was even worse than I remembered. Uncle Herbert would have spanked me long and soundly had he been there to overhear my dreadful conjugations of the commonest Latin verbs.
By this time, even by the most generous estimate, I had been gone for well more than the promised two hours–probably more than three. Marcella had explained to me how to tell the approximate time by watching the angle of the sunlight on the walls, but the lesson hadn't taken very well. Finally, miserably overheated and with my feet aching in the flat leather sandals I had borrowed, I sat down in front of a small bathhouse to count what remained of my money. I had no idea how much it cost to enter a bathhouse, but the few coins in my purse were quite obviously not enough.
I was recounting my funds when I looked down and saw two enormous, sandal-clad feet standing in before me, and the two feet were attached to two very familiar, very hairy legs. Legs that looked like tree trunks–Maximus' legs.
I jumped up. "I suppose I've been a dreadful bother," I said nervously, "but I was quite lost, you see."
Maximus shook his head. "You've endangered your own life and frightened your husband," he said calmly. "And Marcella has already paid for her stupidity with a belt-blistering she'll not forget."
"But this was my fault, not Marcella's" I cried.
"Aye, it was, and I'd be a poor friend to Edward and a man not to be trusted if I didn't punish you as hard as I did Marcella."
"Punish?" I said weakly.
"Punish," he repeated.
I already had a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach that Maximus's definition of punishment wouldn't be something on the order of banishing me to my room without supper, but I certainly wasn't going to give him any ideas. I dropped my eyes demurely and tried to look contrite. "I am terribly sorry," I murmured, "and I promise I'll never do such a silly thing again."
Maximus was apparently not impressed with my contrition, nor with my promises. "Not after the roasting you're about to get, you won't," he said grimly.
And with that, he swung me off my feet and under one great arm as though I were a doll, then strode into the bathhouse with me across his hip, shrieking and wailing for help. When he pushed through the line of waiting women and threw me bottom first into the shallow marble pool, someone screamed. By the time I regained my feet, the ladies had already grabbed up their garments and dispersed through the arched doorway to the street. I stood up in the waist high water, sputtering with rage and spewing water. Not only was my lovely silk toga ruined, but the becoming ringlets Marcella had piled atop my head were drooping forlornly down my face in wet strands, dripping water into my eyes.
Maximus reached down and dragged me out of the pool like a half-drowned cat, then sat down on a marble bench and pulled me toward him, his face grim.
By this point in my life, counting either backward or forward, as you wish, I had been spanked by several men. I'm not precisely sure of Maximus' place in the line–whether he was fifth or sixth. I suppose it depends on whether Edward and I were coming or going in time at the moment of said spanking. Should I subtract one, and then add another, and then subtract… Well, you see what I mean. I am simply not scientific enough to work these numbers out properly. But whatever his place in line, I could only hope he would be the last for some time, because Maximus quite lived up to his name, and when he had completed what he regarded as a favor to my husband, my backside was almost literally on fire, at least insofar as my being capable of transferring heat from one place to another merely by sitting upon the object. My fevered bottom was so hot that when I sat down on the cold marble wall to cool it, the marble was as warm as toast when I stood up. "Heat conduction," I suppose Edward would call it.
Maximus' technique was simple and straightforward. He opened his legs wide and pulled me down across his enormous left thigh like a limp dishcloth or a sprung hairpin. One end of me (the top of my dripping head) brushed the ground, and the other end–my toes–barely touched the ground. The middle part–the most important part, from Maximus' point of view–was poised over his thick knee with my buttocks pointing skyward, and my… well, never mind, I have said quite enough. I have never before been in such a humiliating position, and probably couldn't have done it by myself without getting a cramp somewhere. I barely had time to place my palms on the ground to keep my balance when the promised "roasting" began.
What can I say about Maximus? Hmm. Maximus was strong. Maximus was big. Maximus had uncommonly large, callused hands from all that slaughter and carnage. Maximus was in a surly temper, and Maximus was very, very angry–at me. And after the first few blows with his massive bare hand, Maximus reached down and pulled off my borrowed sandal, and continued with that.
I spent the first few moments howling and begging, and the last few wishing I could simply pass out. The thwacking sound of the
thick leather sandal and the resulting pain seemed to go on for hours, and though it was probably no more than two or three full minutes, please be assured that Maximus made excellent use of his time–and of my thick leather sandal. I once read that being spanked while one's buttocks are wet is drastically more painful, and I can bear witness to the truth of that theory.
When we returned to the amphitheater, Edward was quite obviously terrified, and when he had recovered for that, he became very, very mad.
"You have managed to get poor Marcella an extremely serious whipping." he advised me in a sharp whisper. "A whipping almost as thorough as the one you will get the moment we get back to the farm."
I sighed, but didn't mention what had happened between Maximus and myself, even when Edward took me over his knee that night and spanked me terribly hard for having run away. The stable was dark, so he didn't notice the marks Maximus had doubtlessly left on my poor backside, but the effect of a fairly severe spanking on top of an absolutely stupendous one was remarkable, to say the least. But I still made no objection, since I was feeling genuinely contrite. Actually. I felt much better afterward (notwithstanding the painful throbbing in my now very contrite bottom). I had recently admitted to myself (although I will probably never be able to admit this to Edward) that at times, being taken across my husband's lap for a hard, firm, no-nonsense and no discussion spanking clears things up quite nicely between us–without the usual quarrel. Isn't that odd?
After Edward had spanked me, I went to bed rubbing my scalded bottom and feeling sorry for myself. I cried for a bit, which is unusual for me. Before long, Edward came to bed as well, and held me for a long while, stroking my hair.
"I want so much to go home, Edward," I sobbed.
"I know, my love," he answered very softly. "And you shall get home, safely, and soon–I promise you that." He sighed. "But I must tell you this, darling. I'm not at all certain that I've fixed the problem. Now, try to sleep. I'll need your help tomorrow when I run the final tests."
But I didn't want to sleep. I wanted Edward to make love to me, and when he did, it was so tender and wonderful that afterward, I cried again. Then, well spanked and well loved, I drifted off to sleep in his strong, gentle arms, dreaming of England, and of spring.
* * * *
I awoke very suddenly the next morning–to the sound of approaching horses, and knew instantly that we were in very great trouble.
There was a loud commotion outside–Maximus and his heavily armed team of gladiators running from the main building. Edward and I stumbled to the doorway just as a contingent of armed, mounted Roman guards thundered into the courtyard.
"There they are," one of them shouted. Two of the guards leapt from their horses with drawn swords, but suddenly, Maximus strode into the midst of the chaos shouting.
"These people are friends." he bellowed. "Leave them be!"
"We've no argument with you, Maximus," the leader insisted. "But with these rumors of the slave rebellion, we must be watchful. This pair is obviously runaways who've abused your friendship. The woman was seen yesterday in the marketplace, spying."
"I did no such thing," I cried, stepping out of the stable into the sun. "I was simply shopping." Edward reached for my arm to pull me back, but I was angry now. I had just been rudely awakened from the best sleep I'd had in ages and I didn't like it one bit.
"You can't argue with spears and swords, Abby!" Edward yelled, yanking me backward.
"Of course, I can. I'm not afraid of..." At that moment, a spear struck the stable door, missing my head by mere inches, and I began to see Edward's point.
"Arrest the two slaves!" The first guard shouted. Maximus moved forward, his sword drawn, but Edward screamed and held up his hand.
"No, Maximus! Don't!" He grabbed my elbow and moved backward, pulling me with him–toward the machine. "Do you trust me, Abby?" Edward asked.
I smiled. "Of course I do, darling. I always have."
"Then get in the machine. We're going home."
"Are you sure?" I cried.
There was only a moment's hesitation. "Yes, my love, I'm sure."
Seconds later, while the guards watched in confusion, Edward and I waved a quick farewell to Maximus, and then clambered into the dusty, hay-strewn Time Machine. Edward took my hand in his and kissed me. "If this shouldn't work, Abby..."
"It will work, Edward. I feel it. Please push the lever. I want to go home."
Edward pushed the lever, and with a small whoosh, everything simply went black.
"Edward," I asked in a whisper. "What happened? Where are we?"
Edward gripped my hand tighter. "I love you, Abby."
"I love you, too, Edward," I replied softly, "whatever happens."
And then, a flash of light more brilliant than anything I'd ever seen or even dreamed of enveloped us. It was like we had been absorbed into a living organism, and as we became pure light, I felt myself dissolving. It wasn't painful, and I didn't fear death as it came over me. There was simply silence, and peace, and then… nothingness.
* * * *
"Abby?" Edward's voice said in the darkness. I wanted to answer, but no sound came out.
"Abby, open your eyes and talk to me."
I willed my eyes to open, and thought they had opened, but the absolute darkness remained. So this is death, I thought. It wasn't unpleasant–exactly–but it was boring, and besides that, I was suddenly terribly hungry. I hadn't expected to be hungry in Heaven. I tried my mouth again, and found that it worked.
"Are we in Heaven, Edward?" I asked.
"No, darling, we're in your Uncle Herbert's cellar."
This surprised me, since Uncle Herbert was a confirmed unbeliever. "Is Uncle Herbert in Heaven, too?"
"No, darling. I would imagine he's upstairs."
"Edward, it's very disrespectful to tease a dead person. Are we home, or not?"
"Yes, darling. We're home."
"Am I blind, then?"
"No, darling. The cellar curtains are drawn, as they always are, but I can see light coming from under the door upstairs."
I sniffed. "I smell food."
"Yes, I believe it's lunch time."
"Good. I'm positively starving! I so hope it's roast beef. We haven't had roast beef in… What day is it?"
Edward pointed to the time clock. "It's still the twelfth of August, my love, and it's no wonder you're starving. It's been almost two hours since breakfast."
I yawned. "Lovely. Tomorrow morning, after I've rested a bit, I believe I'll try writing
some of this down, darling. But now, I'd really like to go up and have a bite to eat."
The End
April Hill
April Hill is a best-selling author of women's romance, known for her wry humor, sensitive character development and of course, the love.
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