Free Preview of My Second Roman Femdom and Permanent Chastity Book
(Sorry I skipped a week - it's winter, so you can guess the reason why...)
I’ve always had a thing for Ancient Romans. Growing up, my favourite book was Rosemary Sutcliff’s The Eagle of the Ninth, though I could never quite work out why.
Coming back to it as an adult, it’s really obviously the slavery theme. The hero’s best friend is also his slave, and the slave, who is a former warrior, has some adjusting to do.
Ultimately, the story takes a turn towards modern values, but the first part of the book is told from inside the ancient mentality; slavery is a fact of life, the only control a slave has is how he feels about it, and - in handing over his secret weapon - the slave in the story accepts his bond with his master.
Make the master the mistress and love interest, and I’m home.
It turns out that my fascination with Rome was always a dark one; it was a civilisation like ours where slavery was real and mostly taken for granted.
My dark fascination grew when I discovered there was poetic evidence for Roman lady’s keeping male pleasure slaves and even — maybe — infibulating them or installing some kind of chastity device. There are also dark mutterings about sexual services available in the dimly lit corners of the Women’s Baths, and - gloriously - some Pompeii graffiti which you can choose to interpret as a male prostitute offering oral services to female clients. (I wonder if he was sealed into a male chastity device…?)
Just to be clear, the reality of this is all very nasty and dystopian, but then my sexuality is rooted in nasty urges and dystopian power relationships.
So, on a crazy whim, I wrote my kinky take on Eagle of the Ninth. I gave it a porno title, as you do, but Tortured by Amazon Redheads is very much a femdom adventure story, like some of the really dodgy Men’s Adventure titles I like to find reissued on Amazon.
Before I got drawn into the CARGO verse, I did start on a sequel that would take our chaste hero into the tormenting depths of the Women’s Baths, and into an even darker dynamic.
Since I skipped a week, I thought I would share the first chapter with you and see what you think:
Roman Bath Slave
Chapter 1
Vesta stirred, rolled onto her back and stretched on the white sand. It seemed she didn’t need the smouldering driftwood fire to keep warm. The rocks sheltered her from the sea breeze, and though it was Winter, the Mediterranean sun was warm enough this morning for a woman used to the chillier climate of Caledonia. The storm-churned water hadn’t been that cold, nor had they been in it that long.
Severus froze while his bare feet sank a little into the beach and the fish he’d caught dripped water onto the sand. Saving Vesta from the shipwreck had taken its toll, but the lust still woke his pierced penis, making it stir in its silver cage.
The morning light made her skin and white blond hair glow like unpainted marble, except where her cold-hardened nipples stood out like pale pebbles. It also flashed off her jewellery; delicate silver bands that adorned her elegant wrists and throat, black opals on her earlobes like nuggets of night. Her lips provided the only real colour: the pale red of the ones framing a glimpse of pearly teeth and the deeper red of the lips that pouted from the curls between her slender thighs. Fine sandals still webbed her elegant feet --- he’d left them on her last night so that they would dry in shape.
He felt like Ulysses washed up naked on a foreign shore, except that he’d brought his own equally naked Nausicaa with him; Vesta, his ex-wife and now legal owner. They also still had their clothes: he’d laid her gown and his tunic to dry on neat frames made from withies cut from a willow that overhung a nearby stream. But that was pretty much all that had survived the last leg of their long flight from Britannia to the eastern end of the Mediterranean.
If only a mysterious high-paying passenger hadn’t tempted Pericles to one last winter voyage! The man had seemed desperate to get out of Alexandria in the aftermath of a local rebellion.
And if only Vesta had not kept them aboard. She could have started her new life at any of the ports along the way. Had she grown to like Pericles and his embraces after all? Well the storm had washed her clean of those.
Severus set down his burden and squatted by the fire, aware of his silver-sheathed genitals hanging between his legs like a bell clapper. He’d already used the dead sailor’s knife to gut the fish. Now he set it to cook on a flat stone placed on the embers.
That gave him time to look at his other find: a leather scroll container with a double-dolphin seal on it. Was in connected to that high paying passenger? If so, it might be more valuable to somebody --- and less dangerous to him --- if he did not break the seal.
He glanced at Vesta.
She opened her legs as if to engulf the Sun. Her slit parted just a little to reveal the forge-red of her inner lips.
Something about the sight made Severus’s brand itch: “F” for fugitive blazoned across his forehead, a permanent mark of slavery, even without the iron collar riveted around his throat with its tag stamped with the name of his ex wife.
He should hate her. Probably, he did hate her. Even so, he’d had no climax in nearly half a year. Meanwhile she’d whored herself to his friend Pericles, the Greek ship’s captain, to pay for passage. Sometimes, on still nights, her orgasmic cries had reverberated as far as the ship’s hold and he’d had to sit there, his cock pulsing in its cage, ashamed and aroused and ashamed of big aroused.
“The soldier who became a captive,” he mused, “the captive who became his wife’s cuckold slave...”
The fish hissed on its rock. A drop of fat splashed Severus’s forearm.
He yelped, then flushed. Despite being a veteran of the Emperor’s Legions, being Vesta’s slave had stripped away his tolerance for pain, just as the permanent cage on his genitals had destroyed any sense of manhood, right up until the ship had broken up on rocks.
Then, when the storm hurled Pericles’ ship to destruction, Severus's virility had come back to him. He'd gotten free of his wooden cage, found his wife on the heaving deck, and secured water cask as a float. In the water, a sailor had tried to grab on. Severus had killed him with his own bronze knife. Once they got ashore, he used it to make a fishing spear, then to gut the catch. Only now did it occur to him that it could cut the silver cage.
He regarded his ex-wife’s other belongings: her travelling bundle lay on a rock to dry. He knew it contained the waxed certificate of ownership, cosigned by his former friend Pericles, a miniature version of the mystery scroll.
Burn the certificate, cut off the silver penis cage, steal tools from somewhere to remove the collar and he’d be free...
Except for the big F for Fugitive branded on his forehead, of course.
If he was going to be somebody’s slave, he might as well belong to Vesta who he could not help loving. Perhaps they could come to some other arrangement?
Again, Severus’s cock stirred. It swelled against the silver bars of its cage. There was the now-familiar tight prickling sensation of his engorged head clamping the hook the Celtic Amazons had passed through the head of his penis and out the slit.
He sucked at where the fish oil had seared him.
Vesta rolled onto her side, setting her small breasts quivering. Her blue eyes were open now. “What’s cooking, boy?”
Slaves weren’t real men, no matter how old. They had no beard, no legal standing. They were always pueri in Latin; boy.
Severus handed her half a broken jug full of water from the cask.
She sat up against a rock and gulped it down.
He said, “I saved you from the shipwreck, Vesta, and you still address me as a slave?”
Vesta shifted to sit cross-legged so that her pale thighs funnelled his gaze to her every out of reach vulva with it halo of white-blond hair. “What else,” she said, “would one call a branded fugitive wearing a natty little collar with a tag that says I BELONG TO VESTA?”
“How about ‘husband’?” said Severus. “You were justly angry. You punished me.” He placed the fish on a platter of driftwood and handed it to her.
“Mmmm...” she pushed a morsel of fish into her mouth and took a few moments to chew it before swallowing. Then she washed down the fish with water. Finally she said, “That brand isn’t ever going to go away, is it? Plus you are a deserter.”
“We could keep on pretending in public,” said Severus. “Get this thing off at least.” He tapped the silver cock cage.
His cock reared hopefully against the metalwork.
“I’m not going to have sex with you, boy,” she said.
“But at least I could... pleasure myself.” He flushed.
“Disgusting,” she said, as if dismissing the whole scheme.“What did you save from the wreck?”
“I don’t need you permission,” said Severus. “This knife will make short work of the silver.”
“But not the collar and owner’s tag,” she said. “And then I will sell you. Do you prefer sucking dick to cunt?”
“No!” Severus shuddered.
“Then, boy, that’s no, mistress,” said Vesta.
Severus frowned, but her use of the word made his cock twitch. “No, mistress.”
“Perhaps I shall sell you anyway,” she mused. “You deserve to be some rich old man’s mouth slave.”
“Then I shall run away, mistress,” he said, “and when they catch me, tell all. Where will you be then, mistress? You cannot sell me.”
Vesta’s eyes glinted and he could tell she was calculating exactly how bad it would be for her to be caught hiding a deserter, or conspiring to enslave a free Roman.
Bad enough either way.
She treated him to a smile so cold it made his brand itch. “I warrant that you will one-day wish I had sold you. So answer my question, boy. What did you save from the wreck?”
“You’re looking at it, mistress,” said Severus. The term felt horribly comfortable. “Apart from your jewellery, your gown and bundle, my tunic...” He pointed to where he’d laid them to dry on the withies. “Both our sandals. This knife I took off the sailor who...”
“Not my money?” she asked.
Severus's money, really. His estate she’d collected as his widow, while he beardless and collared waited in attendance, his old friends simply not seeing him.
“I had to let go of it. The sailor had a blade.”
Her blue eyes narrowed. “I think you were keener acquiring a knife than saving my money.”
“But I saved your life!”
“So you keep saying,” she said, rising. “But your stupidity left me with nothing of real value apart from your collar and cock cage, and the brand on your forehead. If those are my only assets, I am going to use them. Now...” she lay back on the sand with a sigh and closed her eyes. “Go and fetch another withy, boy. You need to be reminded of your place.”
“Yes, mistress.”
Severus’s cock was rock hard in its cage now. Even so, when he went to cut a withy from the stunted trees in the foreshore, he took the dolphin scroll with him. It was easy to tuck it under some tree roots. Less easy to return to his mistress bearing a whippy rod destined for his own hide.
She sat up, little creases forming in her pale belly, and pointed down.
Bearing the rod in upturned palms like a sword, he knelt before her.
She rose, took the rod. “In the approved position, slave.”
Severus hunched over.
She pushed a foot under his face.
He kissed it, tasted sea water and salt and her. His groin tightened and prickled uselessly.
“What are you, boy?” she asked.
He blushed.
“A slave, mistress.”
She struck him, hard.
The blow caught him on the bony angle of his buttocks, stung like claw.
He yelped and kissed her foot again.
For a blessed moment he thought that was that, that she had made her point. Then she flailed the rod left and right, criss-crossing her way up his hips, his flanks, his ribcage.
He tried to keep kissing her, but all he could do was gasp opened mouth into the top of her elegant foot.
She paused, panting. “Who owns you, boy?” she managed between breaths.
“You do, mistress,” he said and realised he was weeping. Was there blood running down his back?
He went back to kissing her foot, worked his way around the top to the side of her ankle.
“Mine!” she said.
The rod whooshed, tore into his buttock.
His penis spasmed into painful hardness against the neutering silver bars. He sobbed but kept on kissing.
“What’s you’re name, boy?” she asked. Though she was resting, Vesta’s voice was still breathy. “The name I gave you, the only one you have.”
His new name, the name on his ownership tag and on the certificate.
His ex wife had gleefully revived an old tradition from back when Romans tended to only have one slave per household, and in doing so she’d robbed him of the last vestige of his individuality.
“Vestaepor, mistress.” His hips twitched. A drop of semen forced its way past the silver hook plugging his pisshole. “My...” he stammered as he twitched again. “...name is Vesta’s boy. Vestaepor.”
Vesta sighed and lowered herself to the sand, spread her legs. Red inner lips bloomed from behind the silver frizz of her crotch. “Serve me, Vestaepor.”
Penis throbbing in its permanent prison, Severus crawled forward.
Close to, he could make out little lines of indentations on her outer lips, each marking where a silver hoop had sealed shut her hungry vulva. Now it was open and voracious, but not for his penis, nor for that of any other man.
He approached it open mouthed, sucked in her sharp juices and started to lick.
“Faster!”
The rod clipped his ear, bit his shoulder.
He screamed into her vulva and thrashed his tongue between the lips, skimming her tiny clitoris.
She squirmed under him, groaned and struck him again. This time she caught his ribs with a solid thump.
Panic drenched his lust. She was going to harm him permanently, mar him at best, break something at worst, and there was nothing he could do about it. He was her property.
Now his bars seemed to constrict, as if his penis were wrapped in chainmail.
His tongue whirred wetly between her lips.
Still savaging him with the rode, Vesta tilted her hips and let out a long, low groan. She hunched forward, grabbed his head with both hands and ground his face into her sodden crotch.
Severus struggled to breath, each gulp of air drowning him in her scent.
She pushed him away, slapped his face and lay back, flushed now from cheeks to breast.
Severus knelt up.
It was then he noticed the audience.
I admit! It’s a quirky project. Maybe if the first book sells enough copies, and wins some nice reviews, I can justify taking time out from CARGO to complete the sequel.
Oh go on, write this one. I like how it's turned and hoping to see some Rome proper. Incidentally, the whipping scene was very nice indeed. Pretty hot, DESPITE the nature of the sex act. The mental process / squirm underlying the whipping, great stuff.
infibulate - new one on me, wired shut unable to masturbate or have sex.. just a little side point from the whole story, but that alone made me wanting more.