“You are a slave, silly pussy!” sniggered Uli, as she and Duo scampered behind Melissa, who was leading them briskly towards the blacksmiths’ shops, whence a continual chorus of shrieks echoed around the old stadium, “But anyway, I liked your acrobatics, they were cool – Mistress could hire you out for acts in the interval at the Colosseum!”
At the grandest of the branding-shops, Augusta was enquiring whether Isabella would consider selling her back her daughter – it was a bit of a misunderstanding, you see … Well, she felt she ought at least to try, it was going to be a bit awkward, explaining things to the neighbours… But Isabella was implacable as well as insatiable, she’d got her hands on a very nice piece of girl-flesh, she wasn’t going to let go for any gold.
So Una was frogmarched into the branding-smithy by a couple of muscular monsters who did exciting things along the way to the somewhat bewildered young woman. She was feeling all the most colourful emotions in a maiden’s ample repertoire – shame at her sweaty, smelly post-performance nakedness, terror at the sight of the furnace and smouldering irons, fury at her mother’s selling her without even asking, lust in the grip of these strong, sweaty males leading her to her fate, fascination at the prospect of life in the lesbian harem of Isabella the Insatiable (oh yes, the girls at Rodinia knew all about her!), even a dash of triumph at the success of her spectacular strip-tease, and feeling pretty sure that – whatever else awaited her – she’d escaped from the ghastly prospect of life with Iobbus!
First they fitted ankle-irons, Una had to put each foot up on a large iron anvil, the smith pressed the iron bands around her lower legs, squeezed them tight with huge pincers till they crunched on the bone and she shrieked, then he hammered in rivets that would ensure they’d have to be melted to get them off. Next she had to kneel and hold out her wrists to be similarly ornamented. Duly shackled, she was commanded to lie on her back on the anvil, throwing back her head with its main of chestnut hair, spreading her legs apart and letting her arms fall, so the hunks could link the manacles to rings on the base of the anvil.
Thus mounted like a naturalist’s specimen, Una gazed up to see Isabella standing close, watching with satisfaction. Augusta, Melissa, Uli and Duo were watching too, from the entrance to the smithy, but Una neither knew nor cared, she only saw her new Mistress, and awaited the intiating agony that would welcome her into her new life.
Isabella, like all the great slave-owners, had of course her own brand, kept carefully by the blacksmith for frequent use. Una smelt the acrid scent of hot metal, the farrier took the brand from the fire and showed it to her, it was a fancy design, a pair of snakes knotted together around a long letter I. She braced herself, her breasts were quivering, tits taut with terror and excitement, one of the heavywieghts was holding her left thigh in a tight grip. With a hiss, the metal met her soft skin, her scream rang all around the smith’s shop and echoed through Rome. Within seconds, she was permanently marked with Isabella’s seal of ownership.
Junia watched entranced, she felt every twitch, every spasm of her sister’s jerking, twisting body as she strove to absorb the pain, sweat pouring, the scent of grilling bacon filling the air. “Oh please, please can I be branded too!” she suddently pleaded. Melissa glanced at Augusta, who shook her head – no, a slave-brand would certainly disqulify her from admission to the College of the Vestal Virgins.
Still, Augusta thought, if this daft daughter I’ve still got left on my hands is so keen, she may as well get as much of the slavegirl experience as can be managed. “You can have irons on your wrists and ankles. Blacksmith!”
Una was released, she nursed her still smouldering thigh briefly, but the tough made her stand up, pulled her wrists behind her bum and locked the manacles together. Then, without a backward glance at her mother or sister, the newly-branded slavegirl departed with her Mistress.
Duo was looking excitedly at the array of shackles, manacles, collars and chains that hung on the wall of the shop. Some were in gleaming steel, some enamelled black, some plain, rust-patina iron. The smith measured her wrists and ankles with a cord, found a choice of matching sets, Augusta picked the cheapest, crude iron, her daughter was glad, they felt right to her.
She held out her wrists on the anvil, which was still glistening with her sister’s warm sweat. Her eyes were bright, her nipples taut, she squealed as they were hammered and riveted on, but it was more in excitement than pain – though that was pretty excruciating. As she lifted her leg for the ankle-iron, she gazed at her bare, ivory thigh, and thought of Una’s crimson serpents, oh how she longed for such a blazon! Still, as she put her hands behind her for shackling, not needing any command, she sensed a little thrill of submission – yes, I really am a slavegirl!
At the grandest of the branding-shops, Augusta was enquiring whether Isabella would consider selling her back her daughter – it was a bit of a misunderstanding, you see … Well, she felt she ought at least to try, it was going to be a bit awkward, explaining things to the neighbours… But Isabella was implacable as well as insatiable, she’d got her hands on a very nice piece of girl-flesh, she wasn’t going to let go for any gold.
So Una was frogmarched into the branding-smithy by a couple of muscular monsters who did exciting things along the way to the somewhat bewildered young woman. She was feeling all the most colourful emotions in a maiden’s ample repertoire – shame at her sweaty, smelly post-performance nakedness, terror at the sight of the furnace and smouldering irons, fury at her mother’s selling her without even asking, lust in the grip of these strong, sweaty males leading her to her fate, fascination at the prospect of life in the lesbian harem of Isabella the Insatiable (oh yes, the girls at Rodinia knew all about her!), even a dash of triumph at the success of her spectacular strip-tease, and feeling pretty sure that – whatever else awaited her – she’d escaped from the ghastly prospect of life with Iobbus!
First they fitted ankle-irons, Una had to put each foot up on a large iron anvil, the smith pressed the iron bands around her lower legs, squeezed them tight with huge pincers till they crunched on the bone and she shrieked, then he hammered in rivets that would ensure they’d have to be melted to get them off. Next she had to kneel and hold out her wrists to be similarly ornamented. Duly shackled, she was commanded to lie on her back on the anvil, throwing back her head with its main of chestnut hair, spreading her legs apart and letting her arms fall, so the hunks could link the manacles to rings on the base of the anvil.
Thus mounted like a naturalist’s specimen, Una gazed up to see Isabella standing close, watching with satisfaction. Augusta, Melissa, Uli and Duo were watching too, from the entrance to the smithy, but Una neither knew nor cared, she only saw her new Mistress, and awaited the intiating agony that would welcome her into her new life.
Isabella, like all the great slave-owners, had of course her own brand, kept carefully by the blacksmith for frequent use. Una smelt the acrid scent of hot metal, the farrier took the brand from the fire and showed it to her, it was a fancy design, a pair of snakes knotted together around a long letter I. She braced herself, her breasts were quivering, tits taut with terror and excitement, one of the heavywieghts was holding her left thigh in a tight grip. With a hiss, the metal met her soft skin, her scream rang all around the smith’s shop and echoed through Rome. Within seconds, she was permanently marked with Isabella’s seal of ownership.
Junia watched entranced, she felt every twitch, every spasm of her sister’s jerking, twisting body as she strove to absorb the pain, sweat pouring, the scent of grilling bacon filling the air. “Oh please, please can I be branded too!” she suddently pleaded. Melissa glanced at Augusta, who shook her head – no, a slave-brand would certainly disqulify her from admission to the College of the Vestal Virgins.
Still, Augusta thought, if this daft daughter I’ve still got left on my hands is so keen, she may as well get as much of the slavegirl experience as can be managed. “You can have irons on your wrists and ankles. Blacksmith!”
Una was released, she nursed her still smouldering thigh briefly, but the tough made her stand up, pulled her wrists behind her bum and locked the manacles together. Then, without a backward glance at her mother or sister, the newly-branded slavegirl departed with her Mistress.
Duo was looking excitedly at the array of shackles, manacles, collars and chains that hung on the wall of the shop. Some were in gleaming steel, some enamelled black, some plain, rust-patina iron. The smith measured her wrists and ankles with a cord, found a choice of matching sets, Augusta picked the cheapest, crude iron, her daughter was glad, they felt right to her.
She held out her wrists on the anvil, which was still glistening with her sister’s warm sweat. Her eyes were bright, her nipples taut, she squealed as they were hammered and riveted on, but it was more in excitement than pain – though that was pretty excruciating. As she lifted her leg for the ankle-iron, she gazed at her bare, ivory thigh, and thought of Una’s crimson serpents, oh how she longed for such a blazon! Still, as she put her hands behind her for shackling, not needing any command, she sensed a little thrill of submission – yes, I really am a slavegirl!
a bit history
a few digs in different directions 
