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it's a hard grind being a slavegirl! 
The two girls collected their nice clean punishment tallies, and hurried back to the sleeping-shed, there was special shelf near the door where latecomers returning from the Punishment Gym had to sleep for what was left of the night, it was of course well impregnated with blood and other juices from freshly-disciplined bodies, and Duo didn’t find it easy to sleep with the stinging of her scars, though Uli was well used to it.
In the morning, when they went round the back to the toileting area, scribe-slave Luna saw them and came to whisper, “There’s a CF message for Duo under the rock.” That was all, Uli knew what to do, there was a biggish stone towards the back of a heap of rubble, she glanced around to check no-one was watching, shifted the stone a bit, and there was a roll of papyrus tucked away in a crack. Duo glanced at it and recognised the big, busty letters – “Hey, it’s from Una!” “Sh!” said Uli, “It looks quite a long one, you can tuck it your undie-cloth, but we’ll hide it near the Mill so you can read it after work.”
They did this, Duo smuggled the scroll close to her still whip-tingly skin until they were over the ridge, where Uli showed her a small crack in a crumbly stone wall among scrubby bushes by the path, where the letter could be tucked away well out of sight. Duo laboured vigorously that day, perhaps the Punishment had had its desired effect and improved her work-rate, more likely it was her impatience to find out what big sister was up to.
At last the gong sounded and the slavegirls were released, only a couple of Punishment points to spoil their clean tally-sticks, not a bad score. Duo retrieved Una’s scroll but still kept it hidden as they walked back to the compound. On the way, she asked the questions she’d been wondering about, getting Una’s message had brought them up in her mind again.
“Crucis Fora, Forums of the Cross – why is it called that?” Uli thought a bit, then answered, “I don’t know a lot about it, I believe it began years ago when some slavegirls, Scythians I think, had been crucified –“ “Crucified?” said Duo in some alarm, “Yes – not nailed, but hung on crosses with ropes for a day, maybe more, it’s another way slaves do get punished, you know.” Duo didn’t know, but she took due note. “Anyway, some artistic man-slave drew lovely pictures of them and they got passed around. Then some more men did pictures, some women too, and other slavegirls joined in and wrote stories about what had happened to them – one famous redhead from Hibernia even had really been nailed – and it sort of grew into a network, a kind of guild. There’s slaves who enjoy whipping and torturing – mostly men, but some of the women too – and some who enjoy being whipped, like me.” “You enjoy it, really?” Duo asked, curious, not that she didn’t believe Uli, but she was finding it hard to sort out how she was feeling about it herself, “Mm,” Uli nodded, with a shy smile, Duo just smiled too, complicitly.
“And crosses are still a big part of it too, pictures and stories about slavegirls – sometimes men-slaves too – being crucified are very popular. I’ve not been crucified myself, of course, but… maybe, one day…” Again, Duo felt a shiver of shared excitement.
“But if it’s all about being good slavegirls, even enjoying punishment, why does it have to be so secret?”
“Most Masters and Mistresses are suspicious of any kind of slave society, they think it must mean rebellion. And a lot of the slaves don’t like it, they think we’re stuck-up, owners’ favourites, they’re jealous –“ “Like the overseer bitches?” “Mm. And there are other slave networks too, some of them really are rebels, and a lot are involved in crime and dirty work, they’re really just gangs – so we have to be careful.”
“Can any slavegirl join?” “Oh no, you have to be nominated. Mistress Melissa nominated me, it was a great honour.” Duo felt sad again, even more than her father’s brand on Uli’s thigh, the secret CF on the tip of her triangle was a symbol of a true slave, she felt a desperate longing to share it.
After they’d washed, at last there was a chance for the pair to find a shaded corner where they could eat their mushy food and furtively read Una’s news. When Duo unrolled the papyrus, she was delighted to see her sister had illustrated it.
In the morning, when they went round the back to the toileting area, scribe-slave Luna saw them and came to whisper, “There’s a CF message for Duo under the rock.” That was all, Uli knew what to do, there was a biggish stone towards the back of a heap of rubble, she glanced around to check no-one was watching, shifted the stone a bit, and there was a roll of papyrus tucked away in a crack. Duo glanced at it and recognised the big, busty letters – “Hey, it’s from Una!” “Sh!” said Uli, “It looks quite a long one, you can tuck it your undie-cloth, but we’ll hide it near the Mill so you can read it after work.”
They did this, Duo smuggled the scroll close to her still whip-tingly skin until they were over the ridge, where Uli showed her a small crack in a crumbly stone wall among scrubby bushes by the path, where the letter could be tucked away well out of sight. Duo laboured vigorously that day, perhaps the Punishment had had its desired effect and improved her work-rate, more likely it was her impatience to find out what big sister was up to.
At last the gong sounded and the slavegirls were released, only a couple of Punishment points to spoil their clean tally-sticks, not a bad score. Duo retrieved Una’s scroll but still kept it hidden as they walked back to the compound. On the way, she asked the questions she’d been wondering about, getting Una’s message had brought them up in her mind again.
“Crucis Fora, Forums of the Cross – why is it called that?” Uli thought a bit, then answered, “I don’t know a lot about it, I believe it began years ago when some slavegirls, Scythians I think, had been crucified –“ “Crucified?” said Duo in some alarm, “Yes – not nailed, but hung on crosses with ropes for a day, maybe more, it’s another way slaves do get punished, you know.” Duo didn’t know, but she took due note. “Anyway, some artistic man-slave drew lovely pictures of them and they got passed around. Then some more men did pictures, some women too, and other slavegirls joined in and wrote stories about what had happened to them – one famous redhead from Hibernia even had really been nailed – and it sort of grew into a network, a kind of guild. There’s slaves who enjoy whipping and torturing – mostly men, but some of the women too – and some who enjoy being whipped, like me.” “You enjoy it, really?” Duo asked, curious, not that she didn’t believe Uli, but she was finding it hard to sort out how she was feeling about it herself, “Mm,” Uli nodded, with a shy smile, Duo just smiled too, complicitly.
“And crosses are still a big part of it too, pictures and stories about slavegirls – sometimes men-slaves too – being crucified are very popular. I’ve not been crucified myself, of course, but… maybe, one day…” Again, Duo felt a shiver of shared excitement.
“But if it’s all about being good slavegirls, even enjoying punishment, why does it have to be so secret?”
“Most Masters and Mistresses are suspicious of any kind of slave society, they think it must mean rebellion. And a lot of the slaves don’t like it, they think we’re stuck-up, owners’ favourites, they’re jealous –“ “Like the overseer bitches?” “Mm. And there are other slave networks too, some of them really are rebels, and a lot are involved in crime and dirty work, they’re really just gangs – so we have to be careful.”
“Can any slavegirl join?” “Oh no, you have to be nominated. Mistress Melissa nominated me, it was a great honour.” Duo felt sad again, even more than her father’s brand on Uli’s thigh, the secret CF on the tip of her triangle was a symbol of a true slave, she felt a desperate longing to share it.
After they’d washed, at last there was a chance for the pair to find a shaded corner where they could eat their mushy food and furtively read Una’s news. When Duo unrolled the papyrus, she was delighted to see her sister had illustrated it.
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jonesygirl
Tribunica Potestas
And with a little help from Polly and her Blueberry here is a copy of part of that papyrus
Hi Juni! How’s my little slave-sis? This CF’s cool, my friend here Anatola’s a member, she says if we write, they’ve got ways of sending messages through the slave-net.Of course I was pissed off, totally gobsmacked, when mum actually sold me to Mistress Isabella – I knew she was a greedy cow, but I never thought she’d go that far! And if she was going to sell me, she might have made sure Titania got me for a plaything, I’ve already been there - when we were at the Finishing School I was Tit’s toy, she taught this girl all she knows
! And her brother, that brute who was herding us about at the market, corrrrrr – grrrrrrrrrr!!!! 
But anyway, it’s not turned out that bad. Isabella’s not your ordinary slave-mistress, not by a long whip. Having a hot iron poked onto your bum’s a bit of a thunderbolt, I bet my scream made you jump, I didn’t know myself I could yell that loud
! But actually I quite like the brand-mark now it’s nice and red on my thigh, it makes me feel I belong, if you know what I mean. And we have to work, when we got to Mistress I’s vineyard, everyone was busy harvesting and I had to join in. But straightaway I could feel the other girls were eyeing me, like they were weighing up what they could do with me in the dorm…
You can see there’s no chains or fences – there’s nowhere to run or hide anyway, but anyway life at Villa Isabella’s not that bad.
And then there’s Aphrodisia, Isabella’s daughter, she’s not much older than me, and I’ve made a big impression on her – just by my hard work and demure slavegirl behaviour, I don’t think
! At the end of the first day, she said something about my ‘fine sylphlike body’, that seemed to be sliding into its new role with ease!Here’s a pic of me on a horse with Aphrodisia. The horse is called Argentum, it belongs to someone called Pollia Perquintia or something like that, seems to be a wandering witch-woman, but she doesn’t look like one!
Well, the harvest at Villa Isabella was pretty well in, so we – Aphrodisia and me, that is, she requested me as her handmaiden, travelling companion and ‘comfort girl’ - were magically transported (Pollia was involved) up to a place up in the hills beyond Tridentum. The people round here are some sort of Gauls, and across the mountains there are Germans who come slave-raiding sometimes. But there’s lots of soldiers around, I saw a gang of captured Germanae slavegirls being marched down the road the other day, stark naked, pinky-white skins, blonde hair, blue eyes, all keeping step and singing ‘Teutonia super omnes’
.But the reason we’re here is ‘cos Mistress Isabella has more vineyards up here where she grows grapes for the famous white wine, Virgo Nuda Caerula, ‘naked blue virgin’ (not surprising she’s blue, it’s bloody cold at night with the breeze off the glaciers
) – that’s the cheap export wine, it sells in places like Britannia where they don’t really know what wine is. The posh wine is Lac Puellae Verberatae, ‘whipped-girl’s-milk’.Talking of naked virgins, are you still one? You need to get something done about that quick, if mama and papa have got you down for the Vestal Virgins’ place, that’s a fate worse than death!
They say it’s been an excellent year for growing grapes round here and it should be a vintage harvest. But there’ll always be grapes that aren’t fit for turning into wine, not even Naked Blue Virgin, and those rotten grapes are good for grape fights. Anatola, who’s head of the dorm, challenged me to one, the rules are dead simple, you just fight naked and pelt each other with squishy grapes until your bucket has run out. The loser is the one covered in most grape-crap and she must lick the winner clean from head to toe without missing one iota of flesh.
I’ve no idea how, but came out the winner! So Anatola started doing her loser's task, licking me clean...that grape juice just seems to get everywhere! She was about halfway down my tum, with her tongue heading for interesting territory, when four fidae, ‘trusty slaves’, turned up. Here's a pic of it all by Pollia, (she said something about Rubus aka Blackberry, dunno what that is, maybe another horse?) – see, that’s an Alp in the background:
So, life on Isabella’s farm has its moments. Hope you’re enjoying being a slavegirl as much as I am, Juni – sorry, Duo –
kisses, Val/ Una, slavegirl of Mistress Isabella!
PS lots more to tell you, you won't believe what we get up to in Mistress Isabella's bath-house
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jonesygirl
Tribunica Potestas
Here's another part of that papyrus with another illustration but the translator isn't working too well.
I think it says that Anatolia and Anastasia are guarding a slave who is being punished for not pleasing her mistress....that would be Isabella so Una had better be careful.
I think it says that Anatolia and Anastasia are guarding a slave who is being punished for not pleasing her mistress....that would be Isabella so Una had better be careful.
Pompilius listened compliantly as his wife instructed him on the next stage in his career. “Now you’ve got your ORE and the Imperial Warrant, it’s time to launch your campaign for next year’s elections to the Senate.” “Yes dear,” he sighed, “I suppose it is.” “Of course it is, we must strike while the iron’s hot! Talking of which, Junia seems to have got this obsession about getting branded, you’re really going to have to give her a serious talking to – but anyway, I’ll come back to her. First things first, I’m going to hold a coffee morning.” “Er – a coffee morning, what’s that?” “Well, now your special blend has the Emperor’s approval, we’ve got to give it a better name than ‘bean-juice’, apparently the desert tribesmen call it something that sounds like they’re swallowing the stuff, ‘quavvaea’ or something like that, ‘coffee’ is close enough and sounds civilised. And we need to get respectable women drinking it, they won’t go out to market booths or crucifixion stations along the Military-Ways, what ladies like are gossipy gatherings. So I discussed it with Melissa and instructed her to organise the first ever coffee morning – I’m sure it’ll catch on!”
“Hm, well, if it helps sell Imperial Blend, it can’t be a bad idea.” “Are my ideas ever bad? Anyway,” Augusta rattled on, not requiring a response, “It will be a celebration for your award, an Order of the Roman Empire isn’t something the neighbours can upstage, and it’ll launch your election campaign, if we can get the women signed up, their husbands will fall into line, you mark my words.” Pompilius nodded, only too true, he was thinking.
“And there’s a third thing, it’s all coming together nicely – Valentina and Junia. Of course there’s been a lot of gossip and tittle-tattle about us making them be slaves, even selling Valentina, shock-horror from the usual bleeding-hearts and political-correctness brigade of course, but lots of women I’ve talked to are really interested in the idea, they – and their husbands – are desperate to find some way of dealing with their daughters, girls these days are quite impossible. So the coffee morning will be an opportunity to give a presentation about slave-training for stroppy teenagers. We’ll call Junia in and they’ll be able to see what a difference it’s making!”
“Do you really think that’ll help my election campaign?” asked Pompilius, a little nervously. “Of course it will, the smack of firm discipline, law and order, traditional Roman values, that’s just what the voters want – the senator who sent his sulky daughters into slavery, you can’t lose!”
The first hint Duo got of her mother’s plan was a sharp flick on her bum from the overseer and the barked command, “You’ve got to go down to bagging, collect two large sacks of fresh-ground Imperial, and carry it up to the big house – Mistress Augusta’s orders!”
‘The big house’, what until last week had been ‘home’ to Junia, was well over a mile away, along the track through the woods that sheltered it from the vast industrial area and the slave compound. The two sacks perched on her bare shoulders were hot and heavy and pungent with a stimulating scent, but at least the treck made a change from running up and down the steps between the furnace and the mill. She took the sacks to the tradesmen’s entrance, the grumpy old slave on the door told her to deposit them with the cook, then wait outside for Mistress Melissa.
The coffee morning got off to a good start. Nearly all the ladies she’d invited turned up, even ones like Maxima who never really got on with Augusta, curiosity about the new beverage, the new way of spending the morning, and (especially) Pompilia’s radical approach to daughter-discipline had proved irresistable.
Imperial Blend was sipped with more than polite approval, many of the guests hadn’t tasted coffee before, some who’d tried Starcrux standard blend on shopping trips in the Forum pronounced the up-market version a distinct improvement. Pompilius was summoned in to exhibit his medal, he was pleasantly embarrassed by all the congratulations, and even before the official announcement of his candidature, he was gratified to receive discreet offers of support and hints of assistance with campaign funds on behalf of husbands who were quick to jump on the bandwagon of a likely winner – just out of civic duty, of course.
When Melissa found Duo, she first commanded her to wash at the pump in the kitchen-yard, then she led her into the atrium where she was to kneel and await the gathered ladies, Melissa and the Whip-Master-Lucius standing by. In due course, the chattering throng filed in, Duo prostrated herself as she knew she must. The women looked in some wonder and admiration, many of them remembered Junia as an impossibly cocky young termagant, swinging from tantrums to stygian sulks – what a transformation was this!
At a crack of Lucius’s whip, she stood up, first ‘at the ready’, legs apart, hands behind bum. The guests were invited to inspect her, she maintained her humble demeanour, eyes lowered, as they peered and fingered, noting the pattern of stripes still vividly visible on the slave’s back from the efforts of the fat fish-girl, and showing particular interest in the rich, tender bruising on and around her breasts and cunt-lips.
Then Melissa ordered ‘full stretch’, up on her toes. arms high above her head. “Now our Whip-Master, Lucius, will give a demonstration,” announced Augusta, “How many of you have a Whip-Master in your households?” A few of the ladies said they had, many more made a mental note to suggest to their husbands, such a good idea!
Lucius delivered a selection of his choice strokes, backhand and forehand, front and behind, from well back and close up, curling the thong around Duo’s ribs, shoulders, buttocks, thighs, breasts and girly parts. She was used to it now, she yelped and squealed, wiggled and skipped, but kept getting back into the required position. Even women whose slaves were regularly whipped were impressed at a girl who could take such a thrashing without needing to be bound or chained.
Now Augusta invited her friends to have a go. Two or three were obviously skilled whip-handlers, they gave the girl good swingeing blows, but then a rather shy, plump young housewife came forward. Augusta recognised her as the young wife of banker up the road, more money than sense, the kind that like to make out they’re progressive and enlightened, they can bloody well afford to be. Giggling with embarrassment, she admitted she’d never whipped a slave before. She’d been brought up to always be polite and asked Duo whether she would prefer her lashes across her front or back. This caused some amusement, Augusta pointed out to her that slaves are told, never asked.
Her first few efforts with the whip were alarmingly wild, she had no idea how to aim and nearly took her friend’s eye out! But the women urged her to persevere and she gradually got the hang of it, she even rose a little in Augusta’s sour opinion, so determined was she to make a good job of it. By the time she’d got into her stride, she was laying good red stripes across the slavegirl’s now well-basted body.
The presentation ended, Duo needed only a flick of Melissa’s fingers to say “Thankyou, Mistresses,” then fall to her knees in humble prostration. Another flick of Lucius’s whip told her to get up and hurry back to her labouring at the Mill.
But Augusta had more for her captive audience, “My dear friends and neighbours, I now share with you the news I know you’ve all been waiting for, I want you to be the first to hear – yes, my husband has heard the call and will answer, Borus Ridiculus Pompilius will run for the senate!” To ensure there was no lack of enthusiasm, a large team of slaves had been dragooned to stand in the echo-y porticos, their well-timed roar amplified the politely restrained reaction of the women.
“Yes, Pompilius will represent this, the greatest suburb of the greatest city of the greatest empire the world has ever known! We have had enough of the weevils gnawing at our tender nipples, corrupting our infants, feeding them the milk of moral depravity. Democracy is a fine word, but fine words honey no dormice, you have only to look at Greece to see where democracy takes you. No, Daughters of the Roman Revolution, our Empire must return the guiding principles of its founding father, our immortal Republican Emperor Augustus Caesar!” Again, the slave-cheerleaders had their work cut out.
"My husband will sweat his last drop of blood for the hardworking moral majority, he will lead us forward to the great days of the past, he will defend to the death the rights of Roman citizens to bear whips, to fart without limits, to discipline their daughters.” This did get a rather more enthusiastic response from the matrons.
“Sisters, I feel a mighty movement surging through my bowels, I feel the hand of destiny on my breasts, the voice of the silent majority rings in my ears, yes sisters, the time has come to put our shoulders to the grindstone, our noses to the wheel, our feet where our mouths are - today, this very morning, a new tide of destiny floods from our wombs. In honour of this historic moment, I proclaim to you our great mission, naming it The Coffee Party!”
“Hm, well, if it helps sell Imperial Blend, it can’t be a bad idea.” “Are my ideas ever bad? Anyway,” Augusta rattled on, not requiring a response, “It will be a celebration for your award, an Order of the Roman Empire isn’t something the neighbours can upstage, and it’ll launch your election campaign, if we can get the women signed up, their husbands will fall into line, you mark my words.” Pompilius nodded, only too true, he was thinking.
“And there’s a third thing, it’s all coming together nicely – Valentina and Junia. Of course there’s been a lot of gossip and tittle-tattle about us making them be slaves, even selling Valentina, shock-horror from the usual bleeding-hearts and political-correctness brigade of course, but lots of women I’ve talked to are really interested in the idea, they – and their husbands – are desperate to find some way of dealing with their daughters, girls these days are quite impossible. So the coffee morning will be an opportunity to give a presentation about slave-training for stroppy teenagers. We’ll call Junia in and they’ll be able to see what a difference it’s making!”
“Do you really think that’ll help my election campaign?” asked Pompilius, a little nervously. “Of course it will, the smack of firm discipline, law and order, traditional Roman values, that’s just what the voters want – the senator who sent his sulky daughters into slavery, you can’t lose!”
The first hint Duo got of her mother’s plan was a sharp flick on her bum from the overseer and the barked command, “You’ve got to go down to bagging, collect two large sacks of fresh-ground Imperial, and carry it up to the big house – Mistress Augusta’s orders!”
‘The big house’, what until last week had been ‘home’ to Junia, was well over a mile away, along the track through the woods that sheltered it from the vast industrial area and the slave compound. The two sacks perched on her bare shoulders were hot and heavy and pungent with a stimulating scent, but at least the treck made a change from running up and down the steps between the furnace and the mill. She took the sacks to the tradesmen’s entrance, the grumpy old slave on the door told her to deposit them with the cook, then wait outside for Mistress Melissa.
The coffee morning got off to a good start. Nearly all the ladies she’d invited turned up, even ones like Maxima who never really got on with Augusta, curiosity about the new beverage, the new way of spending the morning, and (especially) Pompilia’s radical approach to daughter-discipline had proved irresistable.
Imperial Blend was sipped with more than polite approval, many of the guests hadn’t tasted coffee before, some who’d tried Starcrux standard blend on shopping trips in the Forum pronounced the up-market version a distinct improvement. Pompilius was summoned in to exhibit his medal, he was pleasantly embarrassed by all the congratulations, and even before the official announcement of his candidature, he was gratified to receive discreet offers of support and hints of assistance with campaign funds on behalf of husbands who were quick to jump on the bandwagon of a likely winner – just out of civic duty, of course.
When Melissa found Duo, she first commanded her to wash at the pump in the kitchen-yard, then she led her into the atrium where she was to kneel and await the gathered ladies, Melissa and the Whip-Master-Lucius standing by. In due course, the chattering throng filed in, Duo prostrated herself as she knew she must. The women looked in some wonder and admiration, many of them remembered Junia as an impossibly cocky young termagant, swinging from tantrums to stygian sulks – what a transformation was this!
At a crack of Lucius’s whip, she stood up, first ‘at the ready’, legs apart, hands behind bum. The guests were invited to inspect her, she maintained her humble demeanour, eyes lowered, as they peered and fingered, noting the pattern of stripes still vividly visible on the slave’s back from the efforts of the fat fish-girl, and showing particular interest in the rich, tender bruising on and around her breasts and cunt-lips.
Then Melissa ordered ‘full stretch’, up on her toes. arms high above her head. “Now our Whip-Master, Lucius, will give a demonstration,” announced Augusta, “How many of you have a Whip-Master in your households?” A few of the ladies said they had, many more made a mental note to suggest to their husbands, such a good idea!
Lucius delivered a selection of his choice strokes, backhand and forehand, front and behind, from well back and close up, curling the thong around Duo’s ribs, shoulders, buttocks, thighs, breasts and girly parts. She was used to it now, she yelped and squealed, wiggled and skipped, but kept getting back into the required position. Even women whose slaves were regularly whipped were impressed at a girl who could take such a thrashing without needing to be bound or chained.
Now Augusta invited her friends to have a go. Two or three were obviously skilled whip-handlers, they gave the girl good swingeing blows, but then a rather shy, plump young housewife came forward. Augusta recognised her as the young wife of banker up the road, more money than sense, the kind that like to make out they’re progressive and enlightened, they can bloody well afford to be. Giggling with embarrassment, she admitted she’d never whipped a slave before. She’d been brought up to always be polite and asked Duo whether she would prefer her lashes across her front or back. This caused some amusement, Augusta pointed out to her that slaves are told, never asked.
Her first few efforts with the whip were alarmingly wild, she had no idea how to aim and nearly took her friend’s eye out! But the women urged her to persevere and she gradually got the hang of it, she even rose a little in Augusta’s sour opinion, so determined was she to make a good job of it. By the time she’d got into her stride, she was laying good red stripes across the slavegirl’s now well-basted body.
The presentation ended, Duo needed only a flick of Melissa’s fingers to say “Thankyou, Mistresses,” then fall to her knees in humble prostration. Another flick of Lucius’s whip told her to get up and hurry back to her labouring at the Mill.
But Augusta had more for her captive audience, “My dear friends and neighbours, I now share with you the news I know you’ve all been waiting for, I want you to be the first to hear – yes, my husband has heard the call and will answer, Borus Ridiculus Pompilius will run for the senate!” To ensure there was no lack of enthusiasm, a large team of slaves had been dragooned to stand in the echo-y porticos, their well-timed roar amplified the politely restrained reaction of the women.
“Yes, Pompilius will represent this, the greatest suburb of the greatest city of the greatest empire the world has ever known! We have had enough of the weevils gnawing at our tender nipples, corrupting our infants, feeding them the milk of moral depravity. Democracy is a fine word, but fine words honey no dormice, you have only to look at Greece to see where democracy takes you. No, Daughters of the Roman Revolution, our Empire must return the guiding principles of its founding father, our immortal Republican Emperor Augustus Caesar!” Again, the slave-cheerleaders had their work cut out.
"My husband will sweat his last drop of blood for the hardworking moral majority, he will lead us forward to the great days of the past, he will defend to the death the rights of Roman citizens to bear whips, to fart without limits, to discipline their daughters.” This did get a rather more enthusiastic response from the matrons.
“Sisters, I feel a mighty movement surging through my bowels, I feel the hand of destiny on my breasts, the voice of the silent majority rings in my ears, yes sisters, the time has come to put our shoulders to the grindstone, our noses to the wheel, our feet where our mouths are - today, this very morning, a new tide of destiny floods from our wombs. In honour of this historic moment, I proclaim to you our great mission, naming it The Coffee Party!”
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Very clever Eul...
indeed you know herVery clever Eul...
jonesygirl
Tribunica Potestas
.....that is so funny...and so true to life. Finished off a great evening...had Calzone at Zizzis but no "Milk of whipped woman" wine on offer....must get Isabella to pay them a visit.
jonesygirl
Tribunica Potestas
"Now Augusta invited her friends to have a go. Two or three were obviously skilled whip-handlers, they gave the girl good swingeing blows, but then a rather shy, plump young housewife came forward. Augusta recognised her as the young wife of banker up the road, more money than sense, the kind that like to make out they’re progressive and enlightened, they can bloody well afford to be. Giggling with embarrassment, she admitted she’d never whipped a slave before. She’d been brought up to always be polite and asked Duo whether she would prefer her lashes across her front or back. This caused some amusement, Augusta pointed out to her that slaves are told, never asked."
The shy, plump young housewife was in fact Bruttia Crispina who quickly developed not only a liking for inflicting pain on naked, bound slaves but became so skilled with a whip that she became the Empire's first Mistress Of The Whip. Her reputation spread far and wide and she was much sought after for public appearances, lectures and whipping festivals. Her book "The Art of the Whip", became a best seller and the must have bible for slave owners everywhere. It contained everything you needed to know and much you didn't, about the type and quality of whips, their effect on the different textures of skin, how to inflict maximum pain with minimum skin damage,lots of charts and figures and much more. It was exceptionally well illustrated for it's time and even had advertising at the end of the book. Polly Perkins was the first to adverise extolling the virtues of her post whipping cream.
This pic shows Bruttia asking for a new whip to try. She is just getting warmed up on her second slave whipping.
The shy, plump young housewife was in fact Bruttia Crispina who quickly developed not only a liking for inflicting pain on naked, bound slaves but became so skilled with a whip that she became the Empire's first Mistress Of The Whip. Her reputation spread far and wide and she was much sought after for public appearances, lectures and whipping festivals. Her book "The Art of the Whip", became a best seller and the must have bible for slave owners everywhere. It contained everything you needed to know and much you didn't, about the type and quality of whips, their effect on the different textures of skin, how to inflict maximum pain with minimum skin damage,lots of charts and figures and much more. It was exceptionally well illustrated for it's time and even had advertising at the end of the book. Polly Perkins was the first to adverise extolling the virtues of her post whipping cream.
This pic shows Bruttia asking for a new whip to try. She is just getting warmed up on her second slave whipping.
“Uh-huh, what’s this about?” As Duo skipped for the umpteenth time in the down the furnace-house steps, her toes barely touching the stones lubricated with her sweat, she spotted the bitchy overseer waiting for her at the foot. “Give me the sacks, turd!” the slavewoman snarled, Duo obeyed, and at once felt her arms grabbed and tugged behind her, in a moment her wrist-irons were locked together, in another she found herself tossed head first into one of the coffee-sacks that the woman was holding open in readiness. She kicked her bare legs, but they were soon seized, ankles shackled and locked to her wrists, and the other sack pulled over them so she was fully bagged up, she felt the strings pulled tight around her. Now she was lifted, two strong brutes were carrying her, she knew she was on her way down to where the ox-carts are loaded, in a few moments she was flung through the air and landed, quite softly, on top of what must have been a cart-load of sacks of ground beans.
“Curioser and curioser,” thought Duo to herself. She was getting used to the lesson that being a slavegirl you just take things as they come, hers not to reason why, but she had a strong hunch that what was happening might not have been authorised by Mistress Melissa. Already she was feeling jolted and shaken, hearing rumbling and creaking, she wriggled to make herself as comfy as she could for this journey in the coffee-coloured twilight of the sacks.
The aroma was pleasant, Duo was so used to it she hardly noticed it, but it was so strong it was making her head swim, she faded in and out of disconnected dreams involving slave-sales and grinding-mills grape-fights and lots and lots of whipping, dreams that mde her feel frightened and horny all at the same time. When she began to hear noises above the groaning of the ox-cart, shouts, and horses neighing and clinking and clattering, and the joliting gave way to a more regular shaking as the wheels clunked along a paved road, she guessed she was in the city.
After a few minutes, the movement stopped, and pretty soon she felt herself yanked up, swung and tossed onto a hard sloping surface down which she slid swiftly to land on a heap of something soft, probably more bean-bags.
“Got her! Good work!” a male voice chortled, “Get the piglet out, let’s have a look at her.”
Duo braced herself as she felt the cords untied, the bags were swept off her, a tough hand grabbed her hair and hauled her so she was kneeling up, her wrists still chained to her ankles behind her.
“So, Miss Junia Pompilia, aka slavegirl Duo?”
The man was quite elderly, grey-haired, clad in an expensive-looking toga. He had an ugly, bullish face, Duo looked up at him, trying to place him, sure she recognised him. Beside him stood a young man, with an equally unlovely, but more gormless, expression, hands on hips, feet apart, clad in a short tunic with a hefty belt.
“Hey, stop staring, slavegirl, answer me properly or else!” As the older man growled, the younger jabbed his sandalled foot into her stomach, she lowered her head compliantly and mumbled, “Yes, Sir, sorry Sir.”
The senior nodded to the pair of nearly-naked thugs who’d unpacked the captive, they released her wrists from her ankles, she struggled to her feet and stood, as she knew she must, thighs wide, head bowed submissively.
“Take her through to the quality assurance department, we need to run a full check on her.”
Duo was led through from one part to another of what were evidently cellars, cellars stocked with bags of what were, by their scent, ground African beans. Strange, she thought, father has the monopoly of importing African beans, this must surely be part of his Starcrux empire, but why did I have to come here in a sack? And who are these blokes? I don’t think they’re part of Starcrux management team, but I’m sure I’ve seen them somewhere….
“Up on there!” commanded the gentleman gruffly, Duo obeyed, clambering up onto a long wooden work-bench with plank edges, the kind used for sorting and checking beans. She guessed she was expected to lie down, stretched herself so the male audience could inspect her girlhood.
Both the elder and the younger man ran their hands over her, pressing, squeezing, probing, just like the customers had done at the slave-market, Duo wiggled a bit, not liking what was being done to her, but not able to stop some naughty feelings bubbling up inside. Their fingers both reached her sex-lips simultaneously, and began opening them.
“Hm, a nice firm little bean, eh?” the grey man commented, the younger was grinning widely, “Yeah, she’s sure sexy!” he slobbered. “Well, when we’ve roasted it and ground it, you can give it a spurt of frothy cream! And these are plump little berries too –“ the old man’s fingers squeezed one of Duo’s nipples, she winced, suppressed a squeal, “I think we’ll pick them, we can send them as a present to that plonker Pompilius and his bitch of a wife, just so they know who’s got their little girl now...”
“Curioser and curioser,” thought Duo to herself. She was getting used to the lesson that being a slavegirl you just take things as they come, hers not to reason why, but she had a strong hunch that what was happening might not have been authorised by Mistress Melissa. Already she was feeling jolted and shaken, hearing rumbling and creaking, she wriggled to make herself as comfy as she could for this journey in the coffee-coloured twilight of the sacks.
The aroma was pleasant, Duo was so used to it she hardly noticed it, but it was so strong it was making her head swim, she faded in and out of disconnected dreams involving slave-sales and grinding-mills grape-fights and lots and lots of whipping, dreams that mde her feel frightened and horny all at the same time. When she began to hear noises above the groaning of the ox-cart, shouts, and horses neighing and clinking and clattering, and the joliting gave way to a more regular shaking as the wheels clunked along a paved road, she guessed she was in the city.
After a few minutes, the movement stopped, and pretty soon she felt herself yanked up, swung and tossed onto a hard sloping surface down which she slid swiftly to land on a heap of something soft, probably more bean-bags.
“Got her! Good work!” a male voice chortled, “Get the piglet out, let’s have a look at her.”
Duo braced herself as she felt the cords untied, the bags were swept off her, a tough hand grabbed her hair and hauled her so she was kneeling up, her wrists still chained to her ankles behind her.
“So, Miss Junia Pompilia, aka slavegirl Duo?”
The man was quite elderly, grey-haired, clad in an expensive-looking toga. He had an ugly, bullish face, Duo looked up at him, trying to place him, sure she recognised him. Beside him stood a young man, with an equally unlovely, but more gormless, expression, hands on hips, feet apart, clad in a short tunic with a hefty belt.
“Hey, stop staring, slavegirl, answer me properly or else!” As the older man growled, the younger jabbed his sandalled foot into her stomach, she lowered her head compliantly and mumbled, “Yes, Sir, sorry Sir.”
The senior nodded to the pair of nearly-naked thugs who’d unpacked the captive, they released her wrists from her ankles, she struggled to her feet and stood, as she knew she must, thighs wide, head bowed submissively.
“Take her through to the quality assurance department, we need to run a full check on her.”
Duo was led through from one part to another of what were evidently cellars, cellars stocked with bags of what were, by their scent, ground African beans. Strange, she thought, father has the monopoly of importing African beans, this must surely be part of his Starcrux empire, but why did I have to come here in a sack? And who are these blokes? I don’t think they’re part of Starcrux management team, but I’m sure I’ve seen them somewhere….
“Up on there!” commanded the gentleman gruffly, Duo obeyed, clambering up onto a long wooden work-bench with plank edges, the kind used for sorting and checking beans. She guessed she was expected to lie down, stretched herself so the male audience could inspect her girlhood.
Both the elder and the younger man ran their hands over her, pressing, squeezing, probing, just like the customers had done at the slave-market, Duo wiggled a bit, not liking what was being done to her, but not able to stop some naughty feelings bubbling up inside. Their fingers both reached her sex-lips simultaneously, and began opening them.
“Hm, a nice firm little bean, eh?” the grey man commented, the younger was grinning widely, “Yeah, she’s sure sexy!” he slobbered. “Well, when we’ve roasted it and ground it, you can give it a spurt of frothy cream! And these are plump little berries too –“ the old man’s fingers squeezed one of Duo’s nipples, she winced, suppressed a squeal, “I think we’ll pick them, we can send them as a present to that plonker Pompilius and his bitch of a wife, just so they know who’s got their little girl now...”
o-oh!!!
T
The Fallen Angel
Guest
Don't like the sound of this.
Pompilius poured himself a stiff falernum and paced about the triclinium in a mournful mood. Enter Augusta,
“Had a good day at the office, dear?” she enquired, failing to look his way.
“They had a rather better one in Pompeii, dear, the day Vesuvius erupted.”
“Oh, well for Jupiter’s sake recline, let’s hear about it. You know what they say, a trouble shared is worth two in the bush.”
“Well, to begin with, some fool’s painted graffiti all over the Mill wall, right under the Imperial Warrant.”
“Oooh, is it a Banxius?”
“I’ve no idea, I only know it says ‘Starcrux sucks, Pompilius….”
“Yes dear, well you’d better get an expert to look at it, if it really is a Banxius you can sell that wall for thousands.”
“Looks like we’ll be needing them. Next thing is a wax tablet from Admius saying a whole waggonload of Imperial Blend has gone AWOL.”
“Ah, slaves! Why can’t you ever buy honest ones? I take it they’re torturing the usual suspects?”
“Oh yes, Lucius is doing that.”
“Is that all?”
“Gods no, that’s only the start of it. When Baldrikos arrived, he told me heralds are proclaiming all over Rome the opening of a new chain of coffee-houses, called Costlia!”
“But they can’t do that! You’ve got the Imperial warrant. Whoever would have the chutzpah?”
“Blattus.”
“OMG!” Augusta frowned, “I suppose it’s his revenge on us pulling out of the marriage deal?“
“Guess so, I wish we’d never got entangled with that clan.”
“It was your idea, Pompilius. One of your stupidest.”
Pompilius sighed, indeed it hadn’t turned out well, though he reserved judgement on whether marrying Augusta might still be in gold medal position.
“So that’s where the missing coffee’s gone?”
“No doubt about that. And now look what’s been delivered.”
He fished into his executive saccus and drew out a small package of pale vellum
“Oooh, a parcel! What is it?”
He opened it up and revealed two small reddish-pink pieces of some kind of offal.
“Yuk, it’s disgusting, take it away slave!” Augusta commanded the lackey, but Pompilius held up his hand. “Read what it says,” he passed her the slightly blood-smeared vellum, there was clumsy black writing on it.
Dear Borus Ridiculus Pompilius
I have the pleasure of enclosing herewith two small specimen pieces of your daughter Junia.
Over the next few days or weeks, we propose to return her to you in convenient-sized portions.
If however, you and your esteemed wife (to whom give our regards) prefer to receive your offspring in a (more or less) intact condition, you will need to meet certain requirements:
1. You will hand over Starcrux’s Imperial Warrant for supply of African Bean Juice, aka Coffee, along with all existing and proposed rights for the sale of low-quality bean-juice at Military Way service stations to Costlia Coffee Houses Inc.
2. You will withdraw your candidacy for the Senate and endorse that of Scarius Sepsis Blattus.
3. You will pay M (one thousand) Denarii into a/c XXXXXX in the Banca Helvetica.
We look forward to the courtesy of a reply to this proposal by cock-crow on the idea of March.
Yours etcetera
S Blattus (per pro)
CEO, Costlia Coffee-Houses Inc.
“That’s outrageous!”
“Yes dear,” Pompilius sighed, “hardly Roman fair play. But we have to think fast, it’s the Ides tomorrow!”
“And what do you propose?”
“Well, no. 1 is out of the question. I’d consider negotiating some sort of a carve-up bewteen Starcrux and Costlia, but fair’s fair, even when we throw Christians to the lions, we give them a level playing-arena.”
“H’m,” Augusta snorted, not approving her husband’s wimpish appeasement, but simply asked, “No. 2?”
“Well dear, to be honest, I’ve been wondering whether I’m really cut out for the job….”
“Nonsense! Of course you are. And what about no. 3?”
“Well, as you know cash flow’s a bit tight, I can’t get my ingots out of the Athens Bank, the only ready cash we’ve got happens to be just around a thousand…”
“You’re not using that! You know that’s earmarked for the bath-house extension. Have you seen the monstrosity they’re putting up at Maximus’s? Obviously trying to make us look small – and anyway the tepidarium’s a disgrace, I’m ashamed to show visitors.”
“B-but what about Junia?”
Augusta was on her feet, her eyes blazing,
“It’s typical of you! You get yourself into a mess, you let your rivals run circles round you and even kidnap your daughter, and then you come whining to me to bail you out! You dare touch my bath-house money, and all your larking around with so-called internae will be all over the Crux Chronicle!”
With which she stormed out in high dudgeon.
“Had a good day at the office, dear?” she enquired, failing to look his way.
“They had a rather better one in Pompeii, dear, the day Vesuvius erupted.”
“Oh, well for Jupiter’s sake recline, let’s hear about it. You know what they say, a trouble shared is worth two in the bush.”
“Well, to begin with, some fool’s painted graffiti all over the Mill wall, right under the Imperial Warrant.”
“Oooh, is it a Banxius?”
“I’ve no idea, I only know it says ‘Starcrux sucks, Pompilius….”
“Yes dear, well you’d better get an expert to look at it, if it really is a Banxius you can sell that wall for thousands.”
“Looks like we’ll be needing them. Next thing is a wax tablet from Admius saying a whole waggonload of Imperial Blend has gone AWOL.”
“Ah, slaves! Why can’t you ever buy honest ones? I take it they’re torturing the usual suspects?”
“Oh yes, Lucius is doing that.”
“Is that all?”
“Gods no, that’s only the start of it. When Baldrikos arrived, he told me heralds are proclaiming all over Rome the opening of a new chain of coffee-houses, called Costlia!”
“But they can’t do that! You’ve got the Imperial warrant. Whoever would have the chutzpah?”
“Blattus.”
“OMG!” Augusta frowned, “I suppose it’s his revenge on us pulling out of the marriage deal?“
“Guess so, I wish we’d never got entangled with that clan.”
“It was your idea, Pompilius. One of your stupidest.”
Pompilius sighed, indeed it hadn’t turned out well, though he reserved judgement on whether marrying Augusta might still be in gold medal position.
“So that’s where the missing coffee’s gone?”
“No doubt about that. And now look what’s been delivered.”
He fished into his executive saccus and drew out a small package of pale vellum
“Oooh, a parcel! What is it?”
He opened it up and revealed two small reddish-pink pieces of some kind of offal.
“Yuk, it’s disgusting, take it away slave!” Augusta commanded the lackey, but Pompilius held up his hand. “Read what it says,” he passed her the slightly blood-smeared vellum, there was clumsy black writing on it.
Dear Borus Ridiculus Pompilius
I have the pleasure of enclosing herewith two small specimen pieces of your daughter Junia.
Over the next few days or weeks, we propose to return her to you in convenient-sized portions.
If however, you and your esteemed wife (to whom give our regards) prefer to receive your offspring in a (more or less) intact condition, you will need to meet certain requirements:
1. You will hand over Starcrux’s Imperial Warrant for supply of African Bean Juice, aka Coffee, along with all existing and proposed rights for the sale of low-quality bean-juice at Military Way service stations to Costlia Coffee Houses Inc.
2. You will withdraw your candidacy for the Senate and endorse that of Scarius Sepsis Blattus.
3. You will pay M (one thousand) Denarii into a/c XXXXXX in the Banca Helvetica.
We look forward to the courtesy of a reply to this proposal by cock-crow on the idea of March.
Yours etcetera
S Blattus (per pro)
CEO, Costlia Coffee-Houses Inc.
“That’s outrageous!”
“Yes dear,” Pompilius sighed, “hardly Roman fair play. But we have to think fast, it’s the Ides tomorrow!”
“And what do you propose?”
“Well, no. 1 is out of the question. I’d consider negotiating some sort of a carve-up bewteen Starcrux and Costlia, but fair’s fair, even when we throw Christians to the lions, we give them a level playing-arena.”
“H’m,” Augusta snorted, not approving her husband’s wimpish appeasement, but simply asked, “No. 2?”
“Well dear, to be honest, I’ve been wondering whether I’m really cut out for the job….”
“Nonsense! Of course you are. And what about no. 3?”
“Well, as you know cash flow’s a bit tight, I can’t get my ingots out of the Athens Bank, the only ready cash we’ve got happens to be just around a thousand…”
“You’re not using that! You know that’s earmarked for the bath-house extension. Have you seen the monstrosity they’re putting up at Maximus’s? Obviously trying to make us look small – and anyway the tepidarium’s a disgrace, I’m ashamed to show visitors.”
“B-but what about Junia?”
Augusta was on her feet, her eyes blazing,
“It’s typical of you! You get yourself into a mess, you let your rivals run circles round you and even kidnap your daughter, and then you come whining to me to bail you out! You dare touch my bath-house money, and all your larking around with so-called internae will be all over the Crux Chronicle!”
With which she stormed out in high dudgeon.
old slave
FELIS RESPICIENS
A brilliant interweaving of real people and recent events into a (reasonably) plausible story, though I thought the offal was awful.