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jonesygirl
Tribunica Potestas
"“Oooh, a parcel! What is it?”
He opened it up and revealed two small reddish-pink pieces of some kind of offal."
Where is Polly Perkins!!!!!.......there's never a time travelling heroine around when you need one!!!
He opened it up and revealed two small reddish-pink pieces of some kind of offal."
Where is Polly Perkins!!!!!.......there's never a time travelling heroine around when you need one!!!
jonesygirl
Tribunica Potestas
I thought only Connie was allowed to make such awful puns!
T
The Fallen Angel
Guest
I'm with you Jollyrei!!!!.....hands up all those who want to save Junia....and of course her nipples!!Can I just fantasize for a moment that Junia gets rescued and her mother is enslaved in a rock pit, just for a moment?
There. Better now.
Oh dear.
old slave
FELIS RESPICIENS
Watch it jonesygirl, or I'll be down the M1 and make you join the other Crookes; after I've dealt with your Nether Edge I'll use a Norton Hammer on your Parson Cross so you meet your Neepsend in the Fulwood.
(Use Google Maps on Sheffield if you care where the names come from)
jonesygirl
Tribunica Potestas
After a sharp Intake of breath I must concentrate on the story and look on the Brightside ....Eulalia may have a trick up her sleeve.
old slave
FELIS RESPICIENS
Brilliant, now for my map of Scotland to urge Eulalia along, Junia needs all the help WE can give her.
Baldrikos, thank Gods you’re here. I hope you’ve got good news?”
“Inquiries are proceeding, Sir.”
“Inquiries are proceeding? That doesn’t sound much!”
“All the wagon-drivers have been tortured, Sir.”
“Good, have any of them confessed?”
“Yes, Sir. They all have.”
“Shit! That gets us nowhere!”
“We do find that’s a problem, Sir. When slaves are tortured, they have this habit of confessing. They seem to think that’s what’s expected of them.”
“They just don’t get it, do they? But what are we going to do, Baldrikos? This is a catastrophe, it’s worse than the sack of Rome by the Gauls, it’s worse than Hannibal, it’s worse than….”
“I suggest, Sir, that beating your head on your desk is unlikely to help matters. I have a plan.”
“You have plan?”
“I have, Sir.”
“Well it had better be cunninger than your last one, Baldrikos, I just don’t see what Blattus would want with a giant wooden horse…”
“Indeed Sir, I think he may be a little less gullible than the Ilian ancestors of Rome –“
Baldrikos gave a sly wink, but continued before his Master could think of a come-back,
“It’s a plan which will, ah, set Costilia on the run.”
“Okay, let’s hear it.”
“I propose that we prepare an adequate number of coffee-bags marked with a new label, say ‘Imperial Special Reserve’.”
“?”
“And that we instruct all our managers of Starcrux outlets that, should any of these bags be delivered to their premises, it is a mistake, they must not open or use them, they must set them aside to be returned to the warehouse.”
“???”
“These ‘Special Reserve’ bags will indeed contain a very special blend. It will be our Imperial Blend, but we shall add a secret ingredient.”
“What secret ingredient?”
“Senna pods.”
“Senna pods?”
“Yes, Senna pods ground with the beans. Some of these bags are very likely to get diverted, into the secret cellars of Blattus’s enterprise, and distributed thence to his Costlia coffee-houses.”
“Ah? Aha! And his managers won’t know they shouldn’t open them?”
“Exactly, Sir.”
“So there will be a sudden rush on the Cloaca Maxima?”
“A veritable tidal wave, Sir. Like the poet, I seem to see the River Tiber foaming with much…"
“Yes, I’m sure it will be. It’s cunning, Baldrikos. But it’s risky – supposing some of the wrong blend got into the Emperor’s bowels? I’d be lucky to get off with crucifixion!”
“There’s no danger of that, Sir. Since Praefectus Arbor gave his instructions, the Emperor’s beans have been dried, roasted, ground and bagged quite separately from all the others, and collected by armoured chariots of the Praetorian Guard. The special bags will only be on the wagons that are scheduled to deliver to our outlets in the city.”
Pompilius smiled, his face experiencing surprise at the unusual demands on its muscles. But at that moment, his lackey rang at the door.
“Oh, come in, what is it, lackey?”
“Sir, cook wishes to know what you want done with the sweetbreads?”
“Sweetbreads, what sweetbreads?”
“Sir, the small pieces of offal you instructed me to remove from the triclinium. I wasn’’t quite sure where I should take them, I thought they were probably intended for the kitchen.”
“Oh Jupiter – er.. tell her to bin them!”
Lackey departed, Pompilius looked glum again.
“Your scheme indeed has merit, Baldrikos, if it succeeds it will certainly flush out Blattus! But it isn’t going to work in time to save Junia from being made into mincemeat…”
“Indeed, Sir, her present predicament does seem perilous. I have informed Melissa, she has good contacts among the slave-classes, if anyone is able to manipulate the scene, I think she’s the one.”
“Yes, she does seem to know what’s going on under our noses.”
“Indeed, Sir. Moreover, if I may make so bold, Miss Junia herself has always seemed to me to be a young lady with unusual talents.”
“Oh? Can’t say I’d noticed. I only hope you’re right.”
“Inquiries are proceeding, Sir.”
“Inquiries are proceeding? That doesn’t sound much!”
“All the wagon-drivers have been tortured, Sir.”
“Good, have any of them confessed?”
“Yes, Sir. They all have.”
“Shit! That gets us nowhere!”
“We do find that’s a problem, Sir. When slaves are tortured, they have this habit of confessing. They seem to think that’s what’s expected of them.”
“They just don’t get it, do they? But what are we going to do, Baldrikos? This is a catastrophe, it’s worse than the sack of Rome by the Gauls, it’s worse than Hannibal, it’s worse than….”
“I suggest, Sir, that beating your head on your desk is unlikely to help matters. I have a plan.”
“You have plan?”
“I have, Sir.”
“Well it had better be cunninger than your last one, Baldrikos, I just don’t see what Blattus would want with a giant wooden horse…”
“Indeed Sir, I think he may be a little less gullible than the Ilian ancestors of Rome –“
Baldrikos gave a sly wink, but continued before his Master could think of a come-back,
“It’s a plan which will, ah, set Costilia on the run.”
“Okay, let’s hear it.”
“I propose that we prepare an adequate number of coffee-bags marked with a new label, say ‘Imperial Special Reserve’.”
“?”
“And that we instruct all our managers of Starcrux outlets that, should any of these bags be delivered to their premises, it is a mistake, they must not open or use them, they must set them aside to be returned to the warehouse.”
“???”
“These ‘Special Reserve’ bags will indeed contain a very special blend. It will be our Imperial Blend, but we shall add a secret ingredient.”
“What secret ingredient?”
“Senna pods.”
“Senna pods?”
“Yes, Senna pods ground with the beans. Some of these bags are very likely to get diverted, into the secret cellars of Blattus’s enterprise, and distributed thence to his Costlia coffee-houses.”
“Ah? Aha! And his managers won’t know they shouldn’t open them?”
“Exactly, Sir.”
“So there will be a sudden rush on the Cloaca Maxima?”
“A veritable tidal wave, Sir. Like the poet, I seem to see the River Tiber foaming with much…"
“Yes, I’m sure it will be. It’s cunning, Baldrikos. But it’s risky – supposing some of the wrong blend got into the Emperor’s bowels? I’d be lucky to get off with crucifixion!”
“There’s no danger of that, Sir. Since Praefectus Arbor gave his instructions, the Emperor’s beans have been dried, roasted, ground and bagged quite separately from all the others, and collected by armoured chariots of the Praetorian Guard. The special bags will only be on the wagons that are scheduled to deliver to our outlets in the city.”
Pompilius smiled, his face experiencing surprise at the unusual demands on its muscles. But at that moment, his lackey rang at the door.
“Oh, come in, what is it, lackey?”
“Sir, cook wishes to know what you want done with the sweetbreads?”
“Sweetbreads, what sweetbreads?”
“Sir, the small pieces of offal you instructed me to remove from the triclinium. I wasn’’t quite sure where I should take them, I thought they were probably intended for the kitchen.”
“Oh Jupiter – er.. tell her to bin them!”
Lackey departed, Pompilius looked glum again.
“Your scheme indeed has merit, Baldrikos, if it succeeds it will certainly flush out Blattus! But it isn’t going to work in time to save Junia from being made into mincemeat…”
“Indeed, Sir, her present predicament does seem perilous. I have informed Melissa, she has good contacts among the slave-classes, if anyone is able to manipulate the scene, I think she’s the one.”
“Yes, she does seem to know what’s going on under our noses.”
“Indeed, Sir. Moreover, if I may make so bold, Miss Junia herself has always seemed to me to be a young lady with unusual talents.”
“Oh? Can’t say I’d noticed. I only hope you’re right.”
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jonesygirl
Tribunica Potestas
Baldrikos, thank Gods you’re here. I hope you’ve got good news?”
“Inquiries are proceeding, Sir.”
“Inquiries are proceeding? That doesn’t sound much!”
“All the wagon-drivers have been tortured, Sir.”
“Good, have any of them confessed?”
"Yes Sir. They all have."
. And I can hear Baldrick saying that!....priceless!
“Inquiries are proceeding, Sir.”
“Inquiries are proceeding? That doesn’t sound much!”
“All the wagon-drivers have been tortured, Sir.”
“Good, have any of them confessed?”
"Yes Sir. They all have."
. And I can hear Baldrick saying that!....priceless!
Junia didn’t like the sound of it either. “Crickey,” she thought, being whipped isn’t that bad, it can even be fun in a weird way, and I wish I could be branded, but being cut up into little pieces isn’t my idea of a girl’s good night out!”
Blattus had instructed Iobbus to bring him a pair of pincers from the workshop, he returned with a grim looking set of iron pliers that blacksmiths use to bend horseshoes. “Not those, you idiot, they’re much too big and blunt, small, sharp ones are what we need!”
“Obviously they’re going to try and ransom me. Some hope! Father’s too tight-arsed to give a copper to a cripple, as for mother, she’ll probably throw a garden-party and barbecue the bits of me they send her! I’ve got to think fast….”
While Iobbus was fossicking about looking for the requisite pincers, his father strolled over to the pile of Imperial Blend he’d successfully hijacked, savouring the exotic aroma that was improving the foetid smell of his dank cellar. When Iobbus returned, bearing an evil little pair of sharp-jawed nipple-nippers, Blattus said, “Leave them there beside her for a moment, that’s it, where she can see them. I fancy a cup of bean-juice before we get to work.” “Oooh yes Dad,” the youth grinned. “Take a bag to the kitchen, tell cook to make some, and tell her to do it properly – I wish we could get a slave who knew how to make the stuff, it shouldn’t end up looking like diarrhoea and tasting worse!”
“Sir!” called out Junia, “I know how to make good coffee!”
“Eh? what?”
The girl sat up, “Yes Sir, would you like me to make you some?”
Blattus chuckled. “Well, well – I hadn't thought of that. Pompilius’s brat ought to be able to brew up the bean-juice! All right then, you run along to the kitchen and fix us two cups – hot as Vesuvius, mind! And make sure you show my idiot cook the right way to do it.”
Junia jumped down from the torture-bench and scampered along to the kitchen, where a glumly ill-favoured creature of a cook-slave was hunched over a wine-jug, muttering “How in Hades am I supposed to know how much to put in?”
In all honesty, Junia wasn’t all that confident herself, she’d only watched cook at home making coffee for father, but she’d always enjoyed learning from cook, and had pretty clear recall. “Here, let me show you,” she said, the cook-slave looked around at her, startled to see the naked youngster in what she thought was her domain.
“We need a measure – hang on, should be something here –“ Junia was scrabbling through a heap of discarded shells from a fish-feast. “This is about right.” She held up a cockle-shell, took it to a small pump in the corner and gave it a good wash, got the slave to dry it well on her apron.
“You need two shell-fulls for each cup, put it in the jug. That’s right.”
Junia looked at the cauldron of water that was steaming over the fire, “This is a bit too hot, bubbling too much.” She filled a ladle and stood for a few moments to let the water cool, then poured it over the grounds, and told the slave to do the same with another ladle-full.
The woman took a stirring-stick, but Junia held up her hand, “wait till the grounds all float to the top and finish breathing little bubbles… right, now give it a stir.” “Is it ready now?” “Oh no, we must let it brew - count to two hundred.” Solemnly the woman counted on her fingers, Junia kept a check in her head while she found a nice clean wine-strainer.
“Right, ready now. Hold the cup and the strainer, I’ll pour.” The kitchen filled with a rich, robust aroma as Junia poured the deep, dark liquid into a shiny cup. When two were full, she placed them on a tray and carried them into the cellar where Blattus and Iobbus were waiting eagerly, sat on a bench. She knelt before them, head bowed, in true slavegirl style.
“Mmmm!” said Blattus, “That is good!” “Wow!” echoed his son. “And you’ve a nice way of serving, too.” added Blattus.
“Thankyou Sir,” said the slavegirl softly, head still bowed, “All the credit is due to Mistress Melissa.”
“Ah yes, I’ve heard of Mistress Melissa. Pompilius doesn’t know how lucky he is, having a slave-mistress like her – perhaps she should be our next kidnapping target…”
Both men sipped in silence, evidently relishing the heady experience.
"Mm, certainly the best bean-juice – what do you call it? Caffee?” “Coffee, Sir.” “Well, the best I’ve ever drunk. I hope my cook’s learnt how you do it, I’ll flay her if she hasn’t!”
“It’s an honour to serve you, Sir. Shall I take your cups back to the kitchen?”
“Yes, then get back up on the bench, it’s time to get your tits off.”
“Sir,” Junia got to her feet with the tray, but maintained her humble demeanour. “Would it greatly inconvenience you if I were to keep my tits on?”
“What d’you mean? Of course I’ve got to snip them off, they’re to send to your smug-butt parents.”
“Couldn’t you send something that, er, looks like nipples, Sir?”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m thinking sweetbreads,[1] Sir.”
“Sweetbreads? What are they?”
“Oh, they’re bits of animals’ insides that do look quite like girls’ tits, Sir, at least I think so.”
“But your parents will realise they aren’t.”
“I’m sure they won’t, Sir. My mother detests cooking, especially anything, er, yucky. As for father, I don’t think he knows his way to the kitchen.”
“So how do you know about sweetbreads?”
“For the same reason, Sir – when I was a kid I snuck off to the kitchen whenever I could, to get away from my parents, and I loved watching cook and helping her.”
“But where are we going to find sweetbreads at this time of night?”
“I’m sure Big Maccus along the road will let you have some, Sir.”
“Good thinking, what Big Maccus puts in his Venses[2] is nobody’s business. But I don’t know, this is supposed to be a proper kidnapping, you’re meant to be in desperate peril.”
“Um, I understand that, Sir,” Junia curtsied politely, “Would you like me to make you some more coffee while you think about it?”
“Yes, I wouldn’t mind another cup – you too Iobb?” His son nodded, grinning.
“H’m, well, this coffee stuff has put me in a good mood,”said Blattus to his junior as their captive hurried back to the kitchen. “What d’you reckon, Iobbus? Shall we use the sweetbreads trick?”
“Yeah Dad, I don’t think it’s cool cutting girls up, like. If we’re going to keep here all night, I want to use her to practise my quinbacum.”
“Quin what?”
“You know, Dad, what that eastern holy man does with slavegirls in the fish forum.”
“Oh, tying them up in knots?”
“Yeah, I bought an instruction scroll, I just need a girl to work on.”
Junia returned with another tray of steaming nectar, which she offered with due obeisance.
“Okay brat, we’ve decided. We’ll send cook along to Maccus for some sweetbreads. But don’t think you’re going to have a quiet night – we don’t want her hanging around, do we son?”
“Oh yes we do Dad!” Iobbus grinned.
[1] ‘Sweetbreads’ is used for for various kinds of minor offal, I think differently in UK and USA and maybe locally in both countries. I’m thinking particularly of lambs’ thymus glands, which do look pretty much like teats.
[2] Short for Trevenses, people or things from Treva, nowadays Hamburg.
jonesygirl
Tribunica Potestas
Quinbacum
If anyone is wondering what Quinbacum is then you should know by now that Eulalia likes to play with words. Here is a brief history of Kinbaku.
In Japanese, “Shibari” simply means “to tie”. The contemporary meaning of Shibari describes an ancient Japanese artistic form of rope bondage.
The origin of Shibari comes from Hojo-jutsu, the martial art of restraining captives. In Japan from 1400 to 1700, while the local police and Samurai used Hojo-jutsu as a form of imprisonment and torture, the honour of these ancient Samurai warriors required them to treat their prisoners well. So, they used different techniques to tie their prisoners, showing the honour and status of their captured prisoner.
In the late 1800′s and early 1900′s a new form of erotic Hojo-justu evolved, called Kinbaku, the art of erotic bondage. Today, particularly in the west, the art of erotic bondage is typically called Shibari, which is an art of erotic spirituality, not a martial art.
Shibari style rigging creates geometric patterns and shapes with rope that contrast beautifully with the human body’s natural curves. The ropes and their texture provide contrast to smooth skin and curves. In Shibari, the model is the canvas, the rope is the paint and brush, and the rigger is the rope artist.
And here is a typical example of the modern form of rope bondage. As yet I don't know of any exam board in the UK which offers Shibari at GCSE .
What kind of honour will be shown to poor Duo? Let's hope she doesn't come to too much grief at the hands of a Quinbacum novice!!
If anyone is wondering what Quinbacum is then you should know by now that Eulalia likes to play with words. Here is a brief history of Kinbaku.
In Japanese, “Shibari” simply means “to tie”. The contemporary meaning of Shibari describes an ancient Japanese artistic form of rope bondage.
The origin of Shibari comes from Hojo-jutsu, the martial art of restraining captives. In Japan from 1400 to 1700, while the local police and Samurai used Hojo-jutsu as a form of imprisonment and torture, the honour of these ancient Samurai warriors required them to treat their prisoners well. So, they used different techniques to tie their prisoners, showing the honour and status of their captured prisoner.
In the late 1800′s and early 1900′s a new form of erotic Hojo-justu evolved, called Kinbaku, the art of erotic bondage. Today, particularly in the west, the art of erotic bondage is typically called Shibari, which is an art of erotic spirituality, not a martial art.
Shibari style rigging creates geometric patterns and shapes with rope that contrast beautifully with the human body’s natural curves. The ropes and their texture provide contrast to smooth skin and curves. In Shibari, the model is the canvas, the rope is the paint and brush, and the rigger is the rope artist.
And here is a typical example of the modern form of rope bondage. As yet I don't know of any exam board in the UK which offers Shibari at GCSE .
What kind of honour will be shown to poor Duo? Let's hope she doesn't come to too much grief at the hands of a Quinbacum novice!!
old slave
FELIS RESPICIENS
I don't know about a GCSE (school exam at 16) in Shibari, but I think Eulalia's thread should be a required module in Hospitality Industry at college. I've learnt so much on this forum, history, human anatomy, pyroplastic flow, now the art of coffee making. To think I only joined to see pics of naked girls nailed.
jonesygirl
Tribunica Potestas
Pics of naked girls?....nailed??..... on this site???.....I am shocked!!!!......does IM know about this!!!
Round up the usual suspects!!!!Pics of naked girls?....nailed??..... on this site???.....I am shocked!!!!......does IM know about this!!!
Junia was dangling by her right big toe, her left ankle was somewhere in the vicinity of her right ear and Iobbus was trying to extend what looked like a web made by a spider who lives in a distillery around from her nicely projecting breasts to enhance her gracefully flexed left leg. From the right angle, her curvily angled profile rather resembled a letter q in Roman cursive minuscule.
“I’m sure it should go this way…” he was muttering, “this bit through here, that end under there…” “Ow!” yelped Junia, “Sh! You’re supposed to be silent and submissive. Now I knot these bits together here… no, that can’t be right - bugger these instructions, they’re gobbledygook, they must have been done by some mystic oriental translating machine that can’t do Latin!”
“Shall I have a look?” asked Junia, Iobbus showed her the scroll, “No, other way up.” “Oh, I thought the diagram must be upside down.” “No, it’s the right way up, by I’m not. Now, the bit that’s dangling behind my left knee, that’s it, that needs to wind round and meet the one coming round under my pussy – ooo! Not too hard! Then you cross them over, knot the knee one to the loose bit next to my right titty – good, now, where’s that other bit gone?”
So, as the night wore on, the captive helped her captor to entangle her in a deliriously convoluted cat’s cradle of random ropework. It wasn’t exactly comfortable, some of the knots prodded her at sensitive places, but the rough fibres rubbing her bare skin weren’t unpleasant, and the sense of her body being moulded even by the clumsy fingers of Iobbus gave Junia a novel kind of excitement.
At length, the youth stood back and admired his handiwork. “H’m, it doesn’t look quite like the way that holy man did it in the Forum – perhaps he uses some special sort of rope, those Chinese conjurers always keep some of their tricks up their sleeves.”
“I expect so,” said Junia, tossing her hair, the only bit of her she could move much now, with an amused grin. “Are you going to drip hot candle-wax on me? I think that’s what they generally do.” “Good point girl, yes we mustn’t forget the hot wax, I’ll get some candles from the kitchen.”
He returned with a selection, the sight of the long, smooth, pale rods gave Junia a nice shiver of anticipation. “Am I allowed to squeal?” she enquired. “Well, I suppose so, the holy man’s slavegirls screech like fighting cats when he gets to the hot wax bit, and you’re supposed to be our kidnap victim, you have to be tortured.”
Iobbus lighted a candle and began dripping wax onto Junia’s bare skin, in between the rigging that was holding her. He spun her about and rolled her to and fro, so the wax dropped onto sensitive thighs, buttocks, breasts, all the parts where a girl’s likely to get stung, and she did indeed yelp, squeal, squall, shriek and finally scream with very satisfatory high notes that echoed through the cellar.
The noise woke Blattus. He hadn’t slept deeply, the coffee had encouraged some colourful but somewhat disquieting dreams. Still, having cursed he remembered he had to be up early, the ransom money should be arriving by cock-crow.
Down in the cellar, he found the source of the girl-screams now squriming sensuously in her swinging net of captivity, Iobbus watching with satisfaction evident under his tunic. “Hey, that’s good work, son!” Blattus congratulated him, “If Pompilius and his bitch of a wife could see her now, they’d be offering all they’ve got to save their runt!”
He prodded Junia with a still-smouldering candle, “Oi, pipe down piglet – it’s nearly time for cock-crow!” Indeed as he spoke, the chieftain of the neighbouring poultry-yard obliged. Moments later came a loud knocking on the door. Blattus rubbed his hands and hurried up the cellar stairs.
“I’m sure it should go this way…” he was muttering, “this bit through here, that end under there…” “Ow!” yelped Junia, “Sh! You’re supposed to be silent and submissive. Now I knot these bits together here… no, that can’t be right - bugger these instructions, they’re gobbledygook, they must have been done by some mystic oriental translating machine that can’t do Latin!”
“Shall I have a look?” asked Junia, Iobbus showed her the scroll, “No, other way up.” “Oh, I thought the diagram must be upside down.” “No, it’s the right way up, by I’m not. Now, the bit that’s dangling behind my left knee, that’s it, that needs to wind round and meet the one coming round under my pussy – ooo! Not too hard! Then you cross them over, knot the knee one to the loose bit next to my right titty – good, now, where’s that other bit gone?”
So, as the night wore on, the captive helped her captor to entangle her in a deliriously convoluted cat’s cradle of random ropework. It wasn’t exactly comfortable, some of the knots prodded her at sensitive places, but the rough fibres rubbing her bare skin weren’t unpleasant, and the sense of her body being moulded even by the clumsy fingers of Iobbus gave Junia a novel kind of excitement.
At length, the youth stood back and admired his handiwork. “H’m, it doesn’t look quite like the way that holy man did it in the Forum – perhaps he uses some special sort of rope, those Chinese conjurers always keep some of their tricks up their sleeves.”
“I expect so,” said Junia, tossing her hair, the only bit of her she could move much now, with an amused grin. “Are you going to drip hot candle-wax on me? I think that’s what they generally do.” “Good point girl, yes we mustn’t forget the hot wax, I’ll get some candles from the kitchen.”
He returned with a selection, the sight of the long, smooth, pale rods gave Junia a nice shiver of anticipation. “Am I allowed to squeal?” she enquired. “Well, I suppose so, the holy man’s slavegirls screech like fighting cats when he gets to the hot wax bit, and you’re supposed to be our kidnap victim, you have to be tortured.”
Iobbus lighted a candle and began dripping wax onto Junia’s bare skin, in between the rigging that was holding her. He spun her about and rolled her to and fro, so the wax dropped onto sensitive thighs, buttocks, breasts, all the parts where a girl’s likely to get stung, and she did indeed yelp, squeal, squall, shriek and finally scream with very satisfatory high notes that echoed through the cellar.
The noise woke Blattus. He hadn’t slept deeply, the coffee had encouraged some colourful but somewhat disquieting dreams. Still, having cursed he remembered he had to be up early, the ransom money should be arriving by cock-crow.
Down in the cellar, he found the source of the girl-screams now squriming sensuously in her swinging net of captivity, Iobbus watching with satisfaction evident under his tunic. “Hey, that’s good work, son!” Blattus congratulated him, “If Pompilius and his bitch of a wife could see her now, they’d be offering all they’ve got to save their runt!”
He prodded Junia with a still-smouldering candle, “Oi, pipe down piglet – it’s nearly time for cock-crow!” Indeed as he spoke, the chieftain of the neighbouring poultry-yard obliged. Moments later came a loud knocking on the door. Blattus rubbed his hands and hurried up the cellar stairs.
“You odious offspring of a stinking sewer-rat!”
Blattus, opening his door to what he expected would be Pompilius or his representative bearing ransom-money was startled to be confronted instead by Augusta, brandishing what he recognised was the letter he’d sent outline his business proposals.
“You steaming lump of dog-turd, polluting the pavement of our city! How dare you send such an impudent, illiterate piece of arse-wipe?”
As she spoke, she smacked his cheek sharply with the scroll, then poked it into his belly.
“How dare you even imagine you gutter-creeping pleb can scare us – scare me, Augusta Pompilia, daughter of Magnificus Superbus Octavianus, of the Imperial clan! I’m warning you, you bloated blob of a bilious bog-beetle – if you have the effrontery to try to challenge my husband’s - and my – magficent achievements, the consequences for you will be dire – I repeat, DIRE!”
“Erm,” stuttered Blattus, “Aren’t you going to ransom Junia?”
Although Augusta was head and shoulders shorter than him, Blattus had an alarming sense that she was towering above him, so massive was the the cloud of thunderous wrath that heaved in her ample bosom and flared from her crimson cheeks.
“Ransom? RANSOM? Do you imagine that a daughter of mine, a child of gens Octavius, would consent to being ransomed? My Junia would rather be racked, scourged and crucified a thousand times than submit to any such impertinent proposal!”
“Gee thanks Mama,” thought Junia, swinging in her ornamental bondage, she could hear all too clearly her mother’s fruity contralto ringing through the cellars, “Perhaps it might have been better if Blattus had kidnapped you – by now he’d be begging father with bags of gold to take you back!”
Augusta raised her arm, flicked her fingers, her coachman passed her his long whip, which she expertly swung so it wrapped around Blattus’s loins.
“Take that!” she cried, as he doubled over, groaning.
“And that!” A thwack on his buttocks sent him sprawling on the pavement, a small crowd that had gathered could not forbear to cheer.
“And that!” A fizzing shot between his thighs made short work of his tunic and cut so as to generate a shrill falsetto shriek.
With that, the formidable female leapt into her carriage, returned the whip to the driver, commanding, “Home Iacobe, and don’t spare the horses!”
Blattus, opening his door to what he expected would be Pompilius or his representative bearing ransom-money was startled to be confronted instead by Augusta, brandishing what he recognised was the letter he’d sent outline his business proposals.
“You steaming lump of dog-turd, polluting the pavement of our city! How dare you send such an impudent, illiterate piece of arse-wipe?”
As she spoke, she smacked his cheek sharply with the scroll, then poked it into his belly.
“How dare you even imagine you gutter-creeping pleb can scare us – scare me, Augusta Pompilia, daughter of Magnificus Superbus Octavianus, of the Imperial clan! I’m warning you, you bloated blob of a bilious bog-beetle – if you have the effrontery to try to challenge my husband’s - and my – magficent achievements, the consequences for you will be dire – I repeat, DIRE!”
“Erm,” stuttered Blattus, “Aren’t you going to ransom Junia?”
Although Augusta was head and shoulders shorter than him, Blattus had an alarming sense that she was towering above him, so massive was the the cloud of thunderous wrath that heaved in her ample bosom and flared from her crimson cheeks.
“Ransom? RANSOM? Do you imagine that a daughter of mine, a child of gens Octavius, would consent to being ransomed? My Junia would rather be racked, scourged and crucified a thousand times than submit to any such impertinent proposal!”
“Gee thanks Mama,” thought Junia, swinging in her ornamental bondage, she could hear all too clearly her mother’s fruity contralto ringing through the cellars, “Perhaps it might have been better if Blattus had kidnapped you – by now he’d be begging father with bags of gold to take you back!”
Augusta raised her arm, flicked her fingers, her coachman passed her his long whip, which she expertly swung so it wrapped around Blattus’s loins.
“Take that!” she cried, as he doubled over, groaning.
“And that!” A thwack on his buttocks sent him sprawling on the pavement, a small crowd that had gathered could not forbear to cheer.
“And that!” A fizzing shot between his thighs made short work of his tunic and cut so as to generate a shrill falsetto shriek.
With that, the formidable female leapt into her carriage, returned the whip to the driver, commanding, “Home Iacobe, and don’t spare the horses!”
I can't help noticing however that she's left Junia behind with a man who has just been publicly humiliated and who was also just told that Junia would like to be crucified a dozen times.That was him told!
I am, in short, concerned. I like that.
