T
The Fallen Angel
Guest
Oh noooooo!!!!!......That was terribull!!!!negotiations with the Minotaur are indeed among the challenges
Duo's request has posed for Isabella - his charges can knock you back a bit
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‘Friends,’ she proclaimed, ‘I have one final announcement, and another invitation for you. To celebrate my acquisition of the Starcrux empire, and Pompilius’s election to the Senate, I have sought, and our Divine Emperor has graciously granted me, the privilege (forfeited of course by the wretched Blattus) of holding this year’s Saturnalia Games in the Colosseum!
They will be Games to remember, Games that will be eulogised by lyric poets, glorified in epics, very special Games in that they will be –‘ she paused for rhetorical effect – ‘Women’s Games!’
A gasp of astonishment was followed by a good deal of cheering from the younger women, though some subdued muttering among the men and even the matrons.
‘Yes, friends, Romans and countrywomen, there will be thrilling contests among gladiatrices, from the Scythian Amazons to the Elves of Erin. They will prove how true were the words of that great imperial poet Rudihardus Quiplingus, 'Femina speciei fatalior est quam vir.' There will be races between girl charioteers, sea-battles with girl galley-slaves. Crucifixions and many other thrilling tortures will display the supple strength and beauty of the female form, strained to its heights of endurance. The great legends of Andromeda and Pasiphae will be brought to life before our very eyes. Christian virgins are already queuing up to be thrown to the lionesses – and there will be more, surprise sensations you’ll never imagine!’
There was a buzz of excitement among the party-goers now, any hints of doubt had evaporated. Isabella’s slavegirls were already weaving among the crowd, handing out gorgeously illuminated parchment scrolls inviting the honoured guests.
Duo shifted her body on her cross, enjoying the cool evening breeze, wondering ….
They will be Games to remember, Games that will be eulogised by lyric poets, glorified in epics, very special Games in that they will be –‘ she paused for rhetorical effect – ‘Women’s Games!’
A gasp of astonishment was followed by a good deal of cheering from the younger women, though some subdued muttering among the men and even the matrons.
‘Yes, friends, Romans and countrywomen, there will be thrilling contests among gladiatrices, from the Scythian Amazons to the Elves of Erin. They will prove how true were the words of that great imperial poet Rudihardus Quiplingus, 'Femina speciei fatalior est quam vir.' There will be races between girl charioteers, sea-battles with girl galley-slaves. Crucifixions and many other thrilling tortures will display the supple strength and beauty of the female form, strained to its heights of endurance. The great legends of Andromeda and Pasiphae will be brought to life before our very eyes. Christian virgins are already queuing up to be thrown to the lionesses – and there will be more, surprise sensations you’ll never imagine!’
There was a buzz of excitement among the party-goers now, any hints of doubt had evaporated. Isabella’s slavegirls were already weaving among the crowd, handing out gorgeously illuminated parchment scrolls inviting the honoured guests.
Duo shifted her body on her cross, enjoying the cool evening breeze, wondering ….
old slave
FELIS RESPICIENS
...and the wholly female participants.
)
Long before dawn on the great day, Duo was awake, anxiously tossing and turning. She slipped out from her small but comfortable cot at the foot of Aphrodite’s bed, and began her morning exercises on the patio. Aphrodite knew what she was doing, she peeped out to watch, her supple, naked handmaid testing her now well-trained muscles in a succession of bends, curls, twists and demanding postures. The earliest glimmers of sunrise played on her undulating skin.
When the long sequence was complete, she revealed her presence and praised the slavegirl, ‘You’re ready now, Duo, perfectly toned. Don’t do any more, you’ll only risk straining yourself or getting stiff, you just need to relax.’
They went back inside, a slavegirl brought glasses of milk and a tray of fruit. Then the early carriage came to tke them to the Colosseum, well before Mistress Isabella, though she was going to arrive in good time to ensure everything was in perfect order for the grand opening.
The maze of galleries beneath the terraces were packed with busy slavegirls, organised by shouting overseers into the various (un)dressing rooms, helping each other don what little costume, body ornaments or armour they were going to be allowed to wear, greasing one another’s bodies, grooming one another’s hair.
Deeper down, below all the busy human actors, could be heard the growls, roars and bellows of the beasts. Duo asked, ‘Please can we see him?’ ‘Are you sure?’ asked Aphrodite, ‘Mm, yes – and I want him to see me and smell me, I need to be sure he recognises me.’ ‘Okay, I’ll ask the Beast-Master.’
They got permission, made the journey down steep steps and dingy passageways into the pungent-smelling semi-darkness, through narrow gaps between cages where starving carnivores seemed close enough to pounce, but they were held back with chains behind strong, close-set bars.
They saw and experienced what Duo wanted to see, then they returned to the girl-quarters, where the animal scent was almost as powerful, but more musky, oestrus-laden.
Aphrodite said Duo didn’t have to stay in the undercroft, she could sit with her through the morning and most of the afternoon, her turn wasn’t going to be for a long time, but Duo said she’d rather be treated the same as the other slaves, so the Troupe-Mistress found her a cell in the range reserved for solo performers, a small cupboard with straw on the floor, a jug of water and a slop-bucket, a barred vent too high up to look through, but where the cheers, roars and screams will soon flow in.
When the long sequence was complete, she revealed her presence and praised the slavegirl, ‘You’re ready now, Duo, perfectly toned. Don’t do any more, you’ll only risk straining yourself or getting stiff, you just need to relax.’
They went back inside, a slavegirl brought glasses of milk and a tray of fruit. Then the early carriage came to tke them to the Colosseum, well before Mistress Isabella, though she was going to arrive in good time to ensure everything was in perfect order for the grand opening.
The maze of galleries beneath the terraces were packed with busy slavegirls, organised by shouting overseers into the various (un)dressing rooms, helping each other don what little costume, body ornaments or armour they were going to be allowed to wear, greasing one another’s bodies, grooming one another’s hair.
Deeper down, below all the busy human actors, could be heard the growls, roars and bellows of the beasts. Duo asked, ‘Please can we see him?’ ‘Are you sure?’ asked Aphrodite, ‘Mm, yes – and I want him to see me and smell me, I need to be sure he recognises me.’ ‘Okay, I’ll ask the Beast-Master.’
They got permission, made the journey down steep steps and dingy passageways into the pungent-smelling semi-darkness, through narrow gaps between cages where starving carnivores seemed close enough to pounce, but they were held back with chains behind strong, close-set bars.
They saw and experienced what Duo wanted to see, then they returned to the girl-quarters, where the animal scent was almost as powerful, but more musky, oestrus-laden.
Aphrodite said Duo didn’t have to stay in the undercroft, she could sit with her through the morning and most of the afternoon, her turn wasn’t going to be for a long time, but Duo said she’d rather be treated the same as the other slaves, so the Troupe-Mistress found her a cell in the range reserved for solo performers, a small cupboard with straw on the floor, a jug of water and a slop-bucket, a barred vent too high up to look through, but where the cheers, roars and screams will soon flow in.
The show opened with a flourish. As soon as the Emperor arrived to a fanfare, the Praetorian Guard was replaced by a marching band of high-stepping, leaping and cavorting cheer-slaves, accompanied by lively girl-bands and a series of exotic solo dancers from the steaming spice-jungles of Asia to the burning hot plains of Africa:
Celebrity gladiatrices posed,
eager papyrazzi quickly snapping sketches of their splendid feminine musculature:
Gladiatricial contests took up most of the morning. Firstly The Glamorous Gauls were routed by The Frisky Franks, who crucified the defeated Gaulish captain, Messa. She looked most elegant, displaying her well-wounded body on an X-cross facing the Imperial Balcony:
Then came the Scythian Amazons, the Franks weren’t frisky enough to dodge their well-aimed arrows, soon they found themselves conscripted for target practice:
But the Amazons had no concern for Messa, still she writhed above the battlefield. Then suddenly a new force sprung into the Arena, the Celtic Elves, led by the fiery redhead Connia, with her plucky little lieutenant Tascia. The battle was close-fought, poor Tascia was captured by the Amazons and stretched over the back of one of their horses on an ingenious racking harness that they brought with them into battle to intimidate their foes.
Celebrity gladiatrices posed,
eager papyrazzi quickly snapping sketches of their splendid feminine musculature:
Gladiatricial contests took up most of the morning. Firstly The Glamorous Gauls were routed by The Frisky Franks, who crucified the defeated Gaulish captain, Messa. She looked most elegant, displaying her well-wounded body on an X-cross facing the Imperial Balcony:
Then came the Scythian Amazons, the Franks weren’t frisky enough to dodge their well-aimed arrows, soon they found themselves conscripted for target practice:
But the Amazons had no concern for Messa, still she writhed above the battlefield. Then suddenly a new force sprung into the Arena, the Celtic Elves, led by the fiery redhead Connia, with her plucky little lieutenant Tascia. The battle was close-fought, poor Tascia was captured by the Amazons and stretched over the back of one of their horses on an ingenious racking harness that they brought with them into battle to intimidate their foes.
But Connia’s troops fought on relentlessly, combining sprightliness with unerring bowwomanship, and eventually the Amazons were forced to submit.
At this stage, all girls who had been captured or compelled to submit were paraded before the crowd to learn their fate:
Those who got thumbs-up – which included most of the Amazons, and a fair number of the Franks and Gauls, were allowed to vanish into the depths of the building, but those about whom the crowd’s opinion was divided were subjected to demonstrations of torture techniques:
a few who’d failed to earn the mob’s approval were prepared for execution, only the Emperor’s gesture could save them…
The beautiful African, who’d only been condemned because the men in the crowd wanted to see her kneeling at the block, bound tightly by her breasts, won the Emperor’s heart by her cheerfulness in the face of death,
but a defiant Frank completely lost her head. and Tascia having commited the mortal crime of allowing herself to be captured, Connia had no option but to behead her:
Pollia was on hand to apply her arrow-extracting and wound-healing ointments, though she had to admit that she’d have to wait till The Doctor came back with the Tardis before she could travel a couple of thousand years into the future to find out how to deal with head-grafting. By popular demand, Messa remained on the cross.
A demonstration of the game of Flickit by teams of Isabella’s own slavegirls was enjoyable,
especially with the refinement of heated pitch, which favoured the fast whipper and the liveliest whippees:
But the crowd seemed to suppose it was just another Roman girl-whipping contest where points were awarded for the loudest screams the whipping side could force from their opponents, the subtler points of the Laws of Flickit were lost on them.
A learned philosopher, Sympazeron the Studious, sitting with Admius and Arbor in the Imperial Box, opined that the rules of Flickit were far too convoluted for the logical Roman mind, more like the weird patterns the barbarians paint on their bodies. He said he’d heard tall tales from travellers of a rather similar game actually being played by men in the Isles of the Ocean, in distant India, and even in the mythical Antipodes, but he thought such fantasies laughable. Still, all three men approved of the nipple tassels, and of whipping them off.
At this stage, all girls who had been captured or compelled to submit were paraded before the crowd to learn their fate:
Those who got thumbs-up – which included most of the Amazons, and a fair number of the Franks and Gauls, were allowed to vanish into the depths of the building, but those about whom the crowd’s opinion was divided were subjected to demonstrations of torture techniques:
a few who’d failed to earn the mob’s approval were prepared for execution, only the Emperor’s gesture could save them…
The beautiful African, who’d only been condemned because the men in the crowd wanted to see her kneeling at the block, bound tightly by her breasts, won the Emperor’s heart by her cheerfulness in the face of death,
but a defiant Frank completely lost her head. and Tascia having commited the mortal crime of allowing herself to be captured, Connia had no option but to behead her:
Pollia was on hand to apply her arrow-extracting and wound-healing ointments, though she had to admit that she’d have to wait till The Doctor came back with the Tardis before she could travel a couple of thousand years into the future to find out how to deal with head-grafting. By popular demand, Messa remained on the cross.
A demonstration of the game of Flickit by teams of Isabella’s own slavegirls was enjoyable,
especially with the refinement of heated pitch, which favoured the fast whipper and the liveliest whippees:
But the crowd seemed to suppose it was just another Roman girl-whipping contest where points were awarded for the loudest screams the whipping side could force from their opponents, the subtler points of the Laws of Flickit were lost on them.
A learned philosopher, Sympazeron the Studious, sitting with Admius and Arbor in the Imperial Box, opined that the rules of Flickit were far too convoluted for the logical Roman mind, more like the weird patterns the barbarians paint on their bodies. He said he’d heard tall tales from travellers of a rather similar game actually being played by men in the Isles of the Ocean, in distant India, and even in the mythical Antipodes, but he thought such fantasies laughable. Still, all three men approved of the nipple tassels, and of whipping them off.
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Many and very nice manips!
T
The Fallen Angel
Guest
The game of Flickit became popular at many stately homes. The game does pop up in The Garden Party. As I recall the winner was Jenny Two Whips Tompkins..
During a midday break for a light repast – a traditional feature of any Flickit match – Messa was at last released from her crucifixion, and the Arena was spectacularly flooded, events in water being a very popular part of the programme for a successful Saturnalia Games.
The first act after the siesta was an exciting boat-chase in which a Belga with an unpronounceable name vaguely like Piqueina rowed frantically in a small skiff pursued by a racing galley powered by eight galley-slaves recruited from relics of Boudicca’s Iceni captured in the haunted fenlands of eastern Britannia. Having won the toss, she chose the advantageous inside curve, and, by crafty dodging and weaving so confused the gubernatrix of the Bogbridge boat that it nearly collided with the bank, a galley-slave caught a crab, the entire crew lost their rhythm, and sank ingloriously, to the delight of the audience and the satisfaction of the sharks that had been thoughtfully released into the water in anticipation of a good feed.
This was followed by a much applauded enactment of the story of Andromeda, in which a dark-haired slavegirl from the Northern Forest was chained naked to a huge rock that had been deposited in the centre of the Arena by an enormous crane. A specially-trained giant octopus was lurking in the murky waters of the artificial sea, when it detected the presence of the sacrificial victim, it began swimming around her, slowly assessing, inspecting, quietly enjoying the scent of her fear…
An all-woman show, no Perseus will save this doomed princess…
Suddenly it thrust out a huge tentacle, the slavegirl leapt, kicking high to dodge. For a minute or two she managed to keep up a vigorous dance, teasing and tricking her attacker as it tried with one tentacle after another to entrap her. But then it plunged under the dark water, disappeared from view, the captive was glancing anxioiuisly to try to detect where it was lurking, then suddenly it lunged, shooting out a tentacle on her blind side, catching her round her loins.
Still she continued to twist and twirl in its grasp, hurling her hips back and forth to try to jump free. More tentacles seized her legs, the monster began tugging her on the irons that gripped her wrists, tearing her arms, then its huge head emerged and its beak began probing her legs, her thighs, and in between, where it detected the tastiest flesh.
The grip of the thick arms with their merciless suckers grew tighter and tighter, the girl’s tanned face was reddening, she was gasping for breath. With a sharp jerk, it tore her arms right out of the wrist irons, flung her down on the top of the rock. Slowly it began its meal, sampling first with small nips at her thighs, then more greedy bites at her rump. Still she squirmed and struggled, she was still alive as her breasts were devoured, even as the merciless beak found its way through her female parts, until with a loud gulp her remains were sucked into the vast, slimy body-bag of the creature.
This unforgettable girl-feast was enthusiastically applauded, Isabella’s promise was certainly being fulfilled. While the Forest-girl was being devoured, the water was drained away, the now satisfied monster was carefully removed, what remained was an arena-full of mud.
The next event was chariot-racing in mud, a dozen wild, nude female charioteers lined up their snorting, impatient steeds and were swiftly away, slithering and skidding around the sharp bends, deliberately impeding one another, using their whips as much against their rivals as on their horses, it was not long before several of the women were rolling in the mud, being dragged along tangled in reins, being trampled under hooves, being crushed under wheels or sliced by the vicious blades attached to the hubs.
The most skillful, most ruthless of the racers was one who was already famous, at least among the gamblers and afficinados of dirty sports. She was known only by the number tattooed on her naked rump, CX. By the time she reached the final lap, she was well ahead of the few other slaves who remained in their chariots, she whipped them triumphantly as she passed them in what was simply a lap of triumph, the crowd, even the Emperor, were cheering wildly.
As a special bonus, to the surprise and delight of the audience, the prize was awarded by the greatest she-charioteer of all time, the fabulous Xena!
The prize was, of course, awarded not to CX, herself a mere slave, but to her owner and team-manager. It was the girl who came second, if she’s lucky he might use her as no. CXI. At any rate, he’ll use her…
The first act after the siesta was an exciting boat-chase in which a Belga with an unpronounceable name vaguely like Piqueina rowed frantically in a small skiff pursued by a racing galley powered by eight galley-slaves recruited from relics of Boudicca’s Iceni captured in the haunted fenlands of eastern Britannia. Having won the toss, she chose the advantageous inside curve, and, by crafty dodging and weaving so confused the gubernatrix of the Bogbridge boat that it nearly collided with the bank, a galley-slave caught a crab, the entire crew lost their rhythm, and sank ingloriously, to the delight of the audience and the satisfaction of the sharks that had been thoughtfully released into the water in anticipation of a good feed.
This was followed by a much applauded enactment of the story of Andromeda, in which a dark-haired slavegirl from the Northern Forest was chained naked to a huge rock that had been deposited in the centre of the Arena by an enormous crane. A specially-trained giant octopus was lurking in the murky waters of the artificial sea, when it detected the presence of the sacrificial victim, it began swimming around her, slowly assessing, inspecting, quietly enjoying the scent of her fear…
An all-woman show, no Perseus will save this doomed princess…
Suddenly it thrust out a huge tentacle, the slavegirl leapt, kicking high to dodge. For a minute or two she managed to keep up a vigorous dance, teasing and tricking her attacker as it tried with one tentacle after another to entrap her. But then it plunged under the dark water, disappeared from view, the captive was glancing anxioiuisly to try to detect where it was lurking, then suddenly it lunged, shooting out a tentacle on her blind side, catching her round her loins.
Still she continued to twist and twirl in its grasp, hurling her hips back and forth to try to jump free. More tentacles seized her legs, the monster began tugging her on the irons that gripped her wrists, tearing her arms, then its huge head emerged and its beak began probing her legs, her thighs, and in between, where it detected the tastiest flesh.
The grip of the thick arms with their merciless suckers grew tighter and tighter, the girl’s tanned face was reddening, she was gasping for breath. With a sharp jerk, it tore her arms right out of the wrist irons, flung her down on the top of the rock. Slowly it began its meal, sampling first with small nips at her thighs, then more greedy bites at her rump. Still she squirmed and struggled, she was still alive as her breasts were devoured, even as the merciless beak found its way through her female parts, until with a loud gulp her remains were sucked into the vast, slimy body-bag of the creature.
This unforgettable girl-feast was enthusiastically applauded, Isabella’s promise was certainly being fulfilled. While the Forest-girl was being devoured, the water was drained away, the now satisfied monster was carefully removed, what remained was an arena-full of mud.
The next event was chariot-racing in mud, a dozen wild, nude female charioteers lined up their snorting, impatient steeds and were swiftly away, slithering and skidding around the sharp bends, deliberately impeding one another, using their whips as much against their rivals as on their horses, it was not long before several of the women were rolling in the mud, being dragged along tangled in reins, being trampled under hooves, being crushed under wheels or sliced by the vicious blades attached to the hubs.
The most skillful, most ruthless of the racers was one who was already famous, at least among the gamblers and afficinados of dirty sports. She was known only by the number tattooed on her naked rump, CX. By the time she reached the final lap, she was well ahead of the few other slaves who remained in their chariots, she whipped them triumphantly as she passed them in what was simply a lap of triumph, the crowd, even the Emperor, were cheering wildly.
As a special bonus, to the surprise and delight of the audience, the prize was awarded by the greatest she-charioteer of all time, the fabulous Xena!
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M
montycrusto
Guest
ooooh, tentacles... I've seen enough hentai to know where this is going....
