Quiet Paul
Tribune
Brilliant stories, and fantastic images. Just what I needed after a while away from here. Thank you Eul!
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With the arena still muddy, the heroine of the next act was led forth, Dorothea from the land of Loidis. She belonged to an obscure and dismal tribe called the Angli, though, as a Christian bishop was heard to comment when he spotted her in the slave-market, ‘Angla sed non angela’ ‘English she may be, but she’s no angel!’
Tough men, nearly as nude as the woman herself, gripped her arms, held them wide, to show her female body round the ring (not that she put up any resistance, she seemed as keen as they were).
In the middle of the sand was a sturdy wooden frame, like a gymnast’s horse. Dorothea was led up to it, her torso stretched along the bar, her legs down, forced apart, strapped to the uprights. Her tender nipples pressed against the rough unyielding wood, her quivering soft lips kissed the rough grain where dozens of girls had chewed before her in their ecstasies of pain.
Next, the still warm and reeking hide of a freshly-slaughtered cow was wrapped across her, leaving her rump exposed, she retched visibly at the stench. The hushed crowd could hear her excited whimpering, see her sweat glistening …
A mighty bull, already sexually aroused by the heavy female-laden air in the arena, was led up to her.
‘Look at the size of it!’
Young women throbbed, clung to their boyfriends, sensing in their warm flesh what the woman was about to feel! Cruel guards enjoyed their close view of her body squirming - in terror or eager anticipation? - under the cow-hide.
They first allowed the bull to sniff her, he was very visibly excited, the crowd screamed “Fuck her!” as the men hauled him back, then encouraged him to mount and mate with her. He was straining, furious, bellowing for the ‘cow’s’ body, she braced her thighs…
With a roar the conqueror leapt! The crowd was cheering, urging him on, drowning Dorothea’s loud squeals as she was crushed. Her legs were squirming, ripped by the ropes, her thighs shuddered, loins jerked, she was biting at the wooden beam, frantic, blood spurting from her tight-bound wrists.
She gasped in exquisite pain as her sex was forced inhumanly open. Her ribs cracked on the iron-hard wood, she was breathless, spewing blood, as the monster drove deeper and deeper, until she yelled ‘Aaah!’ as the bull’s triumphant semen burst in her ruptured flesh!
The beast withdrew, still bellowing loudly, he was led away, the crowd applauding. Dorothea was untied and made to drag her bruised flesh across the sand, jeered by the hooting mob, yet with a grin of triumph and satisfaction on her face.
After this spectacular performance of the ever-popular ‘Pasiphaë‘ there was a bit of a hold-up in the plans. Down in the dungeons reserved for Christian virgins, a doctrinal dispute had broken out over the question how many nails were used to crucify Christ. A schism had erupted between the Trionycists who believed in three nails and the Tetraonycists who insisted on four. But this was only the beginning, further unseemly quarrelling had developed over such questions as the length and shape of the nails, how many hammer-blows it took to drive them in, and yet more obscure issues. Now there were seventeen different sects, all insisting on being martyred separately, flatly refusing to be seen dead with heretics.
Isabella hastily issued instructions for an interlude while the virgins were dragged screaming and kicking up to the Arena doors. The time was filled with an enjoyable exhibition scrap between a famous and ferocious woman carnifex known as The Hun (because she was one)
and a young blonde Germana newbie who fancied her chances as a fighting-slave
but she was simply outclassed, it was a deliberate mismatch so the Hun could display her savagery:
(okay ,we’ve seen the last pic before – I used it at the end of the chariot race, but Melissa found more by the same artist, Tom D Cordero, it would be a shame not to share them)
Tough men, nearly as nude as the woman herself, gripped her arms, held them wide, to show her female body round the ring (not that she put up any resistance, she seemed as keen as they were).
In the middle of the sand was a sturdy wooden frame, like a gymnast’s horse. Dorothea was led up to it, her torso stretched along the bar, her legs down, forced apart, strapped to the uprights. Her tender nipples pressed against the rough unyielding wood, her quivering soft lips kissed the rough grain where dozens of girls had chewed before her in their ecstasies of pain.
Next, the still warm and reeking hide of a freshly-slaughtered cow was wrapped across her, leaving her rump exposed, she retched visibly at the stench. The hushed crowd could hear her excited whimpering, see her sweat glistening …
A mighty bull, already sexually aroused by the heavy female-laden air in the arena, was led up to her.
‘Look at the size of it!’
Young women throbbed, clung to their boyfriends, sensing in their warm flesh what the woman was about to feel! Cruel guards enjoyed their close view of her body squirming - in terror or eager anticipation? - under the cow-hide.
They first allowed the bull to sniff her, he was very visibly excited, the crowd screamed “Fuck her!” as the men hauled him back, then encouraged him to mount and mate with her. He was straining, furious, bellowing for the ‘cow’s’ body, she braced her thighs…
With a roar the conqueror leapt! The crowd was cheering, urging him on, drowning Dorothea’s loud squeals as she was crushed. Her legs were squirming, ripped by the ropes, her thighs shuddered, loins jerked, she was biting at the wooden beam, frantic, blood spurting from her tight-bound wrists.
She gasped in exquisite pain as her sex was forced inhumanly open. Her ribs cracked on the iron-hard wood, she was breathless, spewing blood, as the monster drove deeper and deeper, until she yelled ‘Aaah!’ as the bull’s triumphant semen burst in her ruptured flesh!
The beast withdrew, still bellowing loudly, he was led away, the crowd applauding. Dorothea was untied and made to drag her bruised flesh across the sand, jeered by the hooting mob, yet with a grin of triumph and satisfaction on her face.
After this spectacular performance of the ever-popular ‘Pasiphaë‘ there was a bit of a hold-up in the plans. Down in the dungeons reserved for Christian virgins, a doctrinal dispute had broken out over the question how many nails were used to crucify Christ. A schism had erupted between the Trionycists who believed in three nails and the Tetraonycists who insisted on four. But this was only the beginning, further unseemly quarrelling had developed over such questions as the length and shape of the nails, how many hammer-blows it took to drive them in, and yet more obscure issues. Now there were seventeen different sects, all insisting on being martyred separately, flatly refusing to be seen dead with heretics.
Isabella hastily issued instructions for an interlude while the virgins were dragged screaming and kicking up to the Arena doors. The time was filled with an enjoyable exhibition scrap between a famous and ferocious woman carnifex known as The Hun (because she was one)
and a young blonde Germana newbie who fancied her chances as a fighting-slave
but she was simply outclassed, it was a deliberate mismatch so the Hun could display her savagery:
(okay ,we’ve seen the last pic before – I used it at the end of the chariot race, but Melissa found more by the same artist, Tom D Cordero, it would be a shame not to share them)
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and againAll I can say after this is .... WOW!!!!
Now the Christian volunteer virgins had been herded up to the tunnel. For the sake of a quiet life, the Arena-Master had them grouped by their sects, and groped by their sex (dirty old men having bribed him handsomely to perform the latter task). They were led out onto the sand and arranged tastefully and tastily on a variety of poles and other beast-feeding-stations.
Much to Isabella’s irritation, a careless cage-keeper released a male lion. The idiot was immediately dealt with, being thrown into the pool of a binge-eating crocodile. Out in the Arena, the virgins were beginning to have some doubts about their prospects of passing the stringent interview they’d soon be having with St Peter – is he a three-nailer or a four-nailer? He seems to have taken an upside-down view. Am I really a virgin – er – technically? One girl just didn’t dare look at the fearsome beast, another raised her eyes in hope of a miracle from Heaven:
Actually, she got one, at least a temporary one. The male lion had heard the Christian women squabbling over doctrinal issues even in his cage deep in the bowels of the Colosseum, and decided if they tasted half as bitter as they sounded, he’d rather skip his tea-break. So he gave a sniff and a belch, and plodded back to his cage.
But he was soon replaced with a lively tigress, and she was attracted by some cuddly plump maidens who actually looked pretty pleased to see her:
Much to Isabella’s irritation, a careless cage-keeper released a male lion. The idiot was immediately dealt with, being thrown into the pool of a binge-eating crocodile. Out in the Arena, the virgins were beginning to have some doubts about their prospects of passing the stringent interview they’d soon be having with St Peter – is he a three-nailer or a four-nailer? He seems to have taken an upside-down view. Am I really a virgin – er – technically? One girl just didn’t dare look at the fearsome beast, another raised her eyes in hope of a miracle from Heaven:
Actually, she got one, at least a temporary one. The male lion had heard the Christian women squabbling over doctrinal issues even in his cage deep in the bowels of the Colosseum, and decided if they tasted half as bitter as they sounded, he’d rather skip his tea-break. So he gave a sniff and a belch, and plodded back to his cage.
But he was soon replaced with a lively tigress, and she was attracted by some cuddly plump maidens who actually looked pretty pleased to see her:
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real gourmets those lions
Quiet Paul
Tribune
This really is turning into a very enjoyable Sunday....
Duo in her cell heard the roaring lionesses, the snarling tigresses, the growling she-bears, she heard the cries of the Christian virgins, their courageous hymns, prayers and shouts of mutual encouragement giving way to screams of agony as they gave up their flesh to the beasts, she smelt blood and animal warmth, she knew her turn was next.
She’d dozed through the afternoon heat, half-hearing the clashing of swords, the splashing of oars, the clatter of hooves and chariots, the thunder of Dorothea’s bull – that last had roused her to contemplate what she herself must shortly face.
And now she stood up, stretched, brushed back her hair with her fingers. She was feeling good, cool though excited, psyched up but not afraid. There was a knock at the door, an unfamiliar sound for a slavegirl to hear rather than make, ‘Come in!’ she called.
It was Clementina, Isabella’s Whip-Mistress, now a free woman. Duo still respected her, and flexed her knee with a courteous lowering of her head, but it was to a good friend who’d trained and tended her through the past past weeks, along with Aphrodite, bringing her now to this pitch of readiness.
Clementina smiled, ‘Ready?’ ‘Quite ready, Mistress.’ ‘Come with me then.’
They walked briskly through tunnels and passages, up flights of steps, to the great waiting-hall. It was pretty well deserted now, only a few slaves clearing away the discarded last clothes of all the girls who’d stripped to enter the Arena and never returned to retrieve them.
A couple of slavegirls quickly coated Duo’s skin from her face to her toes with a gleaming veneer of blended fat and resin, she didn’t like it – the smell, the taste on her lips, the slithery feel of it - but she knew it was required, so her body will shine for spectators in the now-sinking sunlight and the flicker of torches, and she’ll glide easily across the rough surfaces she’s about to encounter.
Only the palms of her hands and the soles of her were left ungreased, these she dipped into a bucket of fine pumice, making sure they were well-coated for good grip.
Now the beasts had left the Arena, slaves were sweeping away bleeding bits of Christian virgins their predators had rejected. The slavegirl cheerleaders were performing a lively routine to the accompaniment of the pipes and drums of the Praetorian Guard.
Duo walked with Clementina into the tunnel, much bigger and broader than she’d imagined it, but she realised that it often accompanied large numbers of ‘those about to die’. A few foul old lechers were squatting on the benches at the side, they looked at her with lustful eyes, but the Whip-Mistress was carrying the tool of her trade and they dared not approach.
The cheerleaders completed their athletic display, the band marched off, a pair of buccinatores high in the terraces blew a fanfare,
‘Go well, Duo, go, go, girl!’ cried Clementina, tapping Duo’s bare bum, as the gates swung wide…
She’d dozed through the afternoon heat, half-hearing the clashing of swords, the splashing of oars, the clatter of hooves and chariots, the thunder of Dorothea’s bull – that last had roused her to contemplate what she herself must shortly face.
And now she stood up, stretched, brushed back her hair with her fingers. She was feeling good, cool though excited, psyched up but not afraid. There was a knock at the door, an unfamiliar sound for a slavegirl to hear rather than make, ‘Come in!’ she called.
It was Clementina, Isabella’s Whip-Mistress, now a free woman. Duo still respected her, and flexed her knee with a courteous lowering of her head, but it was to a good friend who’d trained and tended her through the past past weeks, along with Aphrodite, bringing her now to this pitch of readiness.
Clementina smiled, ‘Ready?’ ‘Quite ready, Mistress.’ ‘Come with me then.’
They walked briskly through tunnels and passages, up flights of steps, to the great waiting-hall. It was pretty well deserted now, only a few slaves clearing away the discarded last clothes of all the girls who’d stripped to enter the Arena and never returned to retrieve them.
A couple of slavegirls quickly coated Duo’s skin from her face to her toes with a gleaming veneer of blended fat and resin, she didn’t like it – the smell, the taste on her lips, the slithery feel of it - but she knew it was required, so her body will shine for spectators in the now-sinking sunlight and the flicker of torches, and she’ll glide easily across the rough surfaces she’s about to encounter.
Only the palms of her hands and the soles of her were left ungreased, these she dipped into a bucket of fine pumice, making sure they were well-coated for good grip.
Now the beasts had left the Arena, slaves were sweeping away bleeding bits of Christian virgins their predators had rejected. The slavegirl cheerleaders were performing a lively routine to the accompaniment of the pipes and drums of the Praetorian Guard.
Duo walked with Clementina into the tunnel, much bigger and broader than she’d imagined it, but she realised that it often accompanied large numbers of ‘those about to die’. A few foul old lechers were squatting on the benches at the side, they looked at her with lustful eyes, but the Whip-Mistress was carrying the tool of her trade and they dared not approach.
The cheerleaders completed their athletic display, the band marched off, a pair of buccinatores high in the terraces blew a fanfare,
‘Go well, Duo, go, go, girl!’ cried Clementina, tapping Duo’s bare bum, as the gates swung wide…
Duo leaped into the Arena with a double front aerial handspring. Her opening routine was a much-improved, polished-up version of the one she’d given spontaneously in the sale-ring at the Slave Market: a forward roll, a front flip, then a back tumbling pass, a roundup back handspring, back tuck, a rebound, a one-hand front walkover, and more. But, with advice from Aphrodite and Clementina, she’d built in more acrobatic dance routines, with handwalking, cartwheels, displaying herself unashamedly in scissored and 180° leg-splits, interspersed with high twisting leaps, forwards, backwards and sideways. And all this was performed to the insistent, complex rhythm provided by a group of girl-drummers crouched in a balcony above the tunnel entrance.
The Whip-Mistress had followed Duo out, collecting at the entrance a long-thonged Ringmaster’s whip, she tood in the centre of the Arena, cracking it sharply at her gymnast, who just grinned when sometimes she felt a sharp flick on her bare skin with the whip-tip, and pumped up her spectacular performance undistracted, leaping nimbly over the lash, diving under, skipping, spinning and weaving, glancing up to woo the cheering audience with her mischievous smile.
The excited spectators urged her on with ever-louder cries of delight at the thrilling display by the diminutive nude. The drumming grew faster and faster and more intense, the crowd clapping eagerly along with the rhythm. A climax was reached with a triple handspring, Duo knelt for a few moments, hands spread wide, smiling up at the Emperor’s box, the audience on their feet cheering.
But suddenly there was a crash and a roar as a pair of gates swung open, and into the Arena hurtled a savage bull – not the one that had performed with Dorothea, he was enjoying a well-earned rest, exhausted. Perhaps this was his younger brother, a bit less weighty, more bony and muscular, and even more ferocious in his glare.
Duo was ready, with a quick nip-up, she turned to face him, and skipped nimbly aside to dodge, he turned, charged again, once more she dived, just avoiding his evil sharp horn. The third time, she stood her ground, seized the horns with both hands, and performed a somersault as the monster tossed her high over his back.
There's no shortage of educational aids for any girl wanting to take up bull-jumping!
Duo had practised this time and again, Isabella had hired the services of the champion Etruscan girl bull-leaper, an excellent – and scarily expensive – coach. She landed perfectly, did a quick roll to face him again. Now she was near the only piece of equipment deliberately left in the Arena from the martyrdom of the Christian virgins, a wooden beam supported on two sturdy uprights, with a pair of chains from which a young martyr had hung while she was being eaten by leopards.
As the bull approached, Duo skipped backwards, grabbed the two chains, swung herself up with a high kick above the angry horns, and landed, legs splayed, on top of the beam, just out of reach of the furious animal.
Now she began another gymnastic routine, with turns, leaps, jumps, high kicks and handstands, while the bull continued snorting and bellowing just beneath her. The audience was hushed, holding its breath, one of the girl-drummers resumed, a quiet, tense rhythm.
The Whip-Mistress had followed Duo out, collecting at the entrance a long-thonged Ringmaster’s whip, she tood in the centre of the Arena, cracking it sharply at her gymnast, who just grinned when sometimes she felt a sharp flick on her bare skin with the whip-tip, and pumped up her spectacular performance undistracted, leaping nimbly over the lash, diving under, skipping, spinning and weaving, glancing up to woo the cheering audience with her mischievous smile.
The excited spectators urged her on with ever-louder cries of delight at the thrilling display by the diminutive nude. The drumming grew faster and faster and more intense, the crowd clapping eagerly along with the rhythm. A climax was reached with a triple handspring, Duo knelt for a few moments, hands spread wide, smiling up at the Emperor’s box, the audience on their feet cheering.
But suddenly there was a crash and a roar as a pair of gates swung open, and into the Arena hurtled a savage bull – not the one that had performed with Dorothea, he was enjoying a well-earned rest, exhausted. Perhaps this was his younger brother, a bit less weighty, more bony and muscular, and even more ferocious in his glare.
Duo was ready, with a quick nip-up, she turned to face him, and skipped nimbly aside to dodge, he turned, charged again, once more she dived, just avoiding his evil sharp horn. The third time, she stood her ground, seized the horns with both hands, and performed a somersault as the monster tossed her high over his back.
There's no shortage of educational aids for any girl wanting to take up bull-jumping!
Duo had practised this time and again, Isabella had hired the services of the champion Etruscan girl bull-leaper, an excellent – and scarily expensive – coach. She landed perfectly, did a quick roll to face him again. Now she was near the only piece of equipment deliberately left in the Arena from the martyrdom of the Christian virgins, a wooden beam supported on two sturdy uprights, with a pair of chains from which a young martyr had hung while she was being eaten by leopards.
As the bull approached, Duo skipped backwards, grabbed the two chains, swung herself up with a high kick above the angry horns, and landed, legs splayed, on top of the beam, just out of reach of the furious animal.
Now she began another gymnastic routine, with turns, leaps, jumps, high kicks and handstands, while the bull continued snorting and bellowing just beneath her. The audience was hushed, holding its breath, one of the girl-drummers resumed, a quiet, tense rhythm.
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A blast on a brass horn startled the bull, he turned to see two women ride into the Arena, on, a black mare, was red-haired Connia, chieftainess of the triumphant Celtic Elves, armed with her bow. The other, riding Argentum, was Pollia the time-traveller, carrying a spear.
They halted on the far side of the Arena, opposite Duo, who was now sat, legs splayed in a full split, atop the scaffold, head humbly bowed towards the Emperor. The bull eyed the newcomers suspiciously, pawing the sand, frustrated at his failure to put an end to all this girlish provocation. The drumming ceased.
In the Imperial Balcony, Isabella rose, bent her knee to the Emperor, and spoke loudly, her voice rang around the hushed Colosseum.
‘Master of the Universe, Emperor Divine! The fate of this slavegirl is in your mighty hand. Is it Your Majesty’s wish that she should throw herself to die on the horns of the great bull, as a sacrificial victim to you, O Incarnation of Jove? Or is it your gracious wish that she should live? The world awaits your wisdom, O mighty judge!’ She bowed her knee again, and waited, expectant.
At once the audience began waving their right fists with upturned thumbs, chanting, ‘Vivat! Vivat!’ The Emperor arose, heavily, and stood somewhat unsteadily – he’d supped well at his ever-replenished wine-goblet – and beamed at his admiring subjects. He held out his arm, fist clenched, then, to a mighty cheer, flicked his thumb up.
Immediately the two horsewomen spurred their steeds and galloped, not straight at the bull, but in flanking curves around the two sides of the Arena. The bull glared for a few moments, bellowed angrily, then turned towards Connia, who instantly fired an arrow that struck him in the neck. Enraged, he set off to charge, but Pollia was alongside him now, and thrust her spear into his flank. He spun round with astonishing agility, seemed about to gore her steed Argentum, but then tottered unsteadily, fell sideways, slobbering on the sand.
Something in the arrow and the spear had overcome him, something more potent even the Emperor’s Lac Puellae Verberatae. Pollia and Connia sat mounted either side of him, Duo was now crouching on the beam.
Now the bull staggered to his feet once more, staring around, looking bewildered. The two women took hold of his horns and led him, amazingly docile now, between their two horses under the frame where Duo was balancing. As he passed beneath, she jumped down to sit astride his back. Her saviours let go of the beast, Duo rode him in triumph around the applauding Arena.
As she returned to the space below the Imperial Box, her friends took hold of the bull once more, Duo stood up on its back, sprung onto the top of the safety fence surrounding the Arena, leaped again to grab the golden ropes ornamenting the balcony, vaulted over and landed, prostrate, forehead on the floor, arms stretched before her, at the feet of the astonished Emperor.
His Guards immediately jumped to stand over the unexpected intruder, pressing the points of their spears into her bare back. She remained totally still.
Isabella stood up again, ‘Fear not, Divine Emperor,’ she proclaimed, ‘Call off your guards, the slavegirl comes in peace.’
The Emperor nodded, the Guards stood back, still watching Duo like hawks. Isabella continued,
‘My Lord, this girl, as a result of a sequence of strange adventures worthy of a poet’s imagination, has come to be under my protection, and, after some gentle persuasion, she has revealed to me her deepest secret wish –‘
She paused, for rhetorical effect, the entire Colosseum was hanging on her words –
‘though free-born, she is a natural slave, slavegirl Duo, and her deepest, truest desire is to be possessed by the mightiest man on the Earth!’
The Emperor smiled, anticipating what was coming next. He was eyeing the obeisant slavegirl, his left hand straying under his toga.
‘So, Great Lord of all the Universe, I kneel alongside her –‘ Isabella bowed her knee once more –
‘to beg that you will accept her as my humble gift.’
On cue, Duo knelt up, still keeping her head bowed, blushing deep puce beneath her dusty, sweat-soaked locks. The Emperor leaned forward, stretched out his right hand, squeezed Duo’s glistening breast, she shivered as if an electric shock thrilled through her.
‘We are pleased to accept the slave.’
Uttering these fateful words, the Emperor stood, Duo, trembling, prostrated herself again.
‘Take her for branding, burn my Imperial Eagle on her mount where my bed-slaves are marked.
Then have her washed and scented, and brought to my chamber for tonight.’
As she whispered, ‘Thankyou, my Lord,’ the Guards seized Duo by her arms, swung her to her feet,
and marched her swiftly down, to where – ‘At last!’ she thought – she’ll be branded.
They halted on the far side of the Arena, opposite Duo, who was now sat, legs splayed in a full split, atop the scaffold, head humbly bowed towards the Emperor. The bull eyed the newcomers suspiciously, pawing the sand, frustrated at his failure to put an end to all this girlish provocation. The drumming ceased.
In the Imperial Balcony, Isabella rose, bent her knee to the Emperor, and spoke loudly, her voice rang around the hushed Colosseum.
‘Master of the Universe, Emperor Divine! The fate of this slavegirl is in your mighty hand. Is it Your Majesty’s wish that she should throw herself to die on the horns of the great bull, as a sacrificial victim to you, O Incarnation of Jove? Or is it your gracious wish that she should live? The world awaits your wisdom, O mighty judge!’ She bowed her knee again, and waited, expectant.
At once the audience began waving their right fists with upturned thumbs, chanting, ‘Vivat! Vivat!’ The Emperor arose, heavily, and stood somewhat unsteadily – he’d supped well at his ever-replenished wine-goblet – and beamed at his admiring subjects. He held out his arm, fist clenched, then, to a mighty cheer, flicked his thumb up.
Immediately the two horsewomen spurred their steeds and galloped, not straight at the bull, but in flanking curves around the two sides of the Arena. The bull glared for a few moments, bellowed angrily, then turned towards Connia, who instantly fired an arrow that struck him in the neck. Enraged, he set off to charge, but Pollia was alongside him now, and thrust her spear into his flank. He spun round with astonishing agility, seemed about to gore her steed Argentum, but then tottered unsteadily, fell sideways, slobbering on the sand.
Something in the arrow and the spear had overcome him, something more potent even the Emperor’s Lac Puellae Verberatae. Pollia and Connia sat mounted either side of him, Duo was now crouching on the beam.
Now the bull staggered to his feet once more, staring around, looking bewildered. The two women took hold of his horns and led him, amazingly docile now, between their two horses under the frame where Duo was balancing. As he passed beneath, she jumped down to sit astride his back. Her saviours let go of the beast, Duo rode him in triumph around the applauding Arena.
As she returned to the space below the Imperial Box, her friends took hold of the bull once more, Duo stood up on its back, sprung onto the top of the safety fence surrounding the Arena, leaped again to grab the golden ropes ornamenting the balcony, vaulted over and landed, prostrate, forehead on the floor, arms stretched before her, at the feet of the astonished Emperor.
His Guards immediately jumped to stand over the unexpected intruder, pressing the points of their spears into her bare back. She remained totally still.
Isabella stood up again, ‘Fear not, Divine Emperor,’ she proclaimed, ‘Call off your guards, the slavegirl comes in peace.’
The Emperor nodded, the Guards stood back, still watching Duo like hawks. Isabella continued,
‘My Lord, this girl, as a result of a sequence of strange adventures worthy of a poet’s imagination, has come to be under my protection, and, after some gentle persuasion, she has revealed to me her deepest secret wish –‘
She paused, for rhetorical effect, the entire Colosseum was hanging on her words –
‘though free-born, she is a natural slave, slavegirl Duo, and her deepest, truest desire is to be possessed by the mightiest man on the Earth!’
The Emperor smiled, anticipating what was coming next. He was eyeing the obeisant slavegirl, his left hand straying under his toga.
‘So, Great Lord of all the Universe, I kneel alongside her –‘ Isabella bowed her knee once more –
‘to beg that you will accept her as my humble gift.’
On cue, Duo knelt up, still keeping her head bowed, blushing deep puce beneath her dusty, sweat-soaked locks. The Emperor leaned forward, stretched out his right hand, squeezed Duo’s glistening breast, she shivered as if an electric shock thrilled through her.
‘We are pleased to accept the slave.’
Uttering these fateful words, the Emperor stood, Duo, trembling, prostrated herself again.
‘Take her for branding, burn my Imperial Eagle on her mount where my bed-slaves are marked.
Then have her washed and scented, and brought to my chamber for tonight.’
As she whispered, ‘Thankyou, my Lord,’ the Guards seized Duo by her arms, swung her to her feet,
and marched her swiftly down, to where – ‘At last!’ she thought – she’ll be branded.
I'll second that.Bravo!!! and Whew!!!
Yes, that's in the lap of the God-Emperor.
I suppose I should have put THE END at the end, 'cos it is.
I've much enjoyed writing the story, once I got into it and the various characters -
especially slavegirl Duo - came to life for me and started to run with it.
The whole idea of two stroppy daughters learning their lesson came from Melissa,
and the wonderful manips Julie and she produced were a great source of inspiration,
thanks to them, and to many friends for encouraging comments along the way
I suppose I should have put THE END at the end, 'cos it is.
I've much enjoyed writing the story, once I got into it and the various characters -
especially slavegirl Duo - came to life for me and started to run with it.
The whole idea of two stroppy daughters learning their lesson came from Melissa,
and the wonderful manips Julie and she produced were a great source of inspiration,
thanks to them, and to many friends for encouraging comments along the way
M
montycrusto
Guest
A great read, highly entertaining and lubricious in both senses of the word. My thanks to all involved.
T
The Fallen Angel
Guest
It's always sad when a story ends
.....but......maybe a new story sometime
.....but......maybe a new story sometime