A Slave’s Tale
An Erotic Fantasy by Redbud
- I originally posted this as a Distraction & Daydream and called it Submission. I’ve changed the name and am writing the Daydream & Distraction that I originally started. In the meantime, and based on responses, I’ve broken the story into smaller chapters for easier reading. The narrative has a sort of ‘free association’ feel to it so I’ve called it a fantasy. If you’re reading it a second time, let me know what you think. As with the last story, and in honor of the many women who have commented and requested, you will find, along with so much else, men making love to men. P.S. As with all my stories, I hope you will forgive typos and missing punctuation. I try to clean them up over time.
I can’t explain it.
I want you to be the slave girl I buy at auction. Did they capture you? Were you the daughter of a nobleman? – The daughter of a wealthy merchant? – Did you run fiercely with wolves before they tied you, hands over head, to the auction post?
You spit on me when I approach you.
You secretly want me to buy you. I know it because you haven’t spit on any of the others. The auctioneer switches your ass and you twist deliciously. Your wrists are bound over your head. What can you do? I touch you where I want to. I put the palm of my hand on your lean belly, feeling its muscles, health and readiness. As two dozen other buyers watch and wait, I palm your hips, feeling their curve, strength, and suppleness – how well they would bear.
Your glare defies me to touch you again.
I want you to. Defy me. Want me, but fight me.
I tell you how I take your hair in one hand, reaching behind you to do it, and yank your head back, not cruelly, not painfully, but firmly. I feel for your clit with my other hand, and when I find it I pressed it hard between the broad tip of my finger and your pelvic bone. In my story, you rise onto your toes, your eyes flutter and you inhale with a stifled groan. I slip a finger into you, to the first knuckle, feel wetness and your youthful, involuntary tightening. I smell and I like your odor, like the smell of soil in an olive grove.
You are like a wild animal.
You don’t know why I do this. You are like a young she-wolf. You don’t know why your muscles spasm when I pierce you or understand the strange pleasure that I knead with my fingers, but I will teach you. My cock hardens. I imagine your hair is a dark, earthen brown. Your hair is wild, uncombed and tangled with burdock, twigs and wildflower.
I outbid all others.
You are expensive, but there is no price I won’t pay for you. I know, by the way you watch me, that you understand and expect it.
This is the story I want to play out.
I want you like the dominant wolf that wants the bitch. I lead you from the auction block with a leather collar round your neck. Your wrists are bound behind your back. Dirt covers you but you are lean and beautiful. Your tits are swollen. Your hips sway and you are more ready for what I will do than you understand. You smell of dirt and your own heat. It is your time. The men and boys who part as we pass through gaze at you with fear and desire. They gaze at your flawless ass and narrow legs. I pull you with a leash that is fastened to your waist.
Let me explain.
There is a narrow leather tie that goes around your waist and is knotted just at the flat plain beneath your belly button. I silver bell is tied there because a slave owner must always know where his property is. Two more leather straps descend between your legs. They part to either side of your sex making an elegant oval around it. Then they straps come to together, rise together between the divide of your ass, and tie to the strap around your waist.
The purpose of the oval around your pussy, and your purpose, is clear.
I walk you over the cobblestone streets. We’re in a Roman outpost, a small city or garrison town on the Mediterranean. You glare at anyone who dares stare at you. Maybe you’re thinking about what you will do to me once I untie you. Yes. I want that. Resist me so that I can break you.
There are fruit and vegetable sellers along the road. I won’t hurry through the streets. I want to show you off. I want jealousy. I want other men to imagine what I will soon do to you and how I will enjoy you. Could I explain to you why I’m like this? No. Do you secretly like it? Can you explain to me why? Is it the masculine and feminine?
You’re not used to walking on pavement stones but you’re no less graceful.
You interrupt me. Change it to this, you say.
I’m a wealthy merchant’s daughter – the wealthiest and most powerful merchant outside of Rome. I was pampered as a little girl and growing up. Servants dressed and undressed me. They bathed me and anointed me with myrrh and perfumes from Arabia – thighs, breasts, and neck.
My father didn’t let me play outside the marble floors of his villa. When I was a young teenager I learned that he was grooming me for marriage to another merchant. The merchant was a passionless old man who lived in shadows and stern droughts. He would sire me coldly and indifferently. I knew I would spend the rest of my life as I had begun it.
My skin burned for the touch of the wild.
My body ached for the whip of grass at hips, the burning noonday sun and for a heat in my belly an old man couldn’t slake.
One day I disguised myself as one of the dark haired slaves. I bowed my head and when the broad chested and powerfully built bald man, whose was both slave and slave master, switched my thighs because I hadn’t walked quickly enough, I said nothing but relished the sweet heat of its sting – the pain as real as the burning sands I hastened toward.
I walked through two stone archways and in the shadows of the second I escaped.
I interrupt you.
No, I say, the slave master would never let you escape so easily.
 Slave Quarters: His Version
Here is what happens: You follow the others through the stone archways. The soil is sandy, presses between your toes, and is still hot with the earlier day’s sunlight. You know nothing of the lives of slaves. You follow the women into their quarters and see each find a linen wrapped mat of hay. The slave quarters are a single room with a hard, dry, dirt floor, swept and kept clean. The roof is a broad rough wood supported by rough-hewn rafters. A single bowl of water is at the end. This was where the women clean themselves and the youngest refreshes the bowl with water that runs through a stone channel tow thirds of the way through the room. The youngest, though no longer a girl, still has a girlish figure and face. After three women have washed their faces, hands and feet in the bowl, she empties it and scoops more from the aqueduct. Even among slaves, there are slaves.
You don’t go to the bowl fearing the water will wash the black from your hair.
You can only think of escape. In the middle of the night, the bald slave master enters the women’s quarters. Slaves receive no pay, but the slave master is rewarded by his use of the slave women. The merchant is doubly rewarded because the slave master is easily contented and the merchant’s slaves are bred.
You watch him as he moves from one sleeping woman to the next. Sometimes he kneels and runs his hand over the robe covered hips and ass of a woman as though he were considering her. The slave women wear nothing under their robes. Each stirs as he touches them, some more receptive than others. Some slap his hand and he laughs quietly and pats their ass before he goes to the next. Sometimes he reaches underneath and gently feels a belly. He smiles if he feels her swelling and then moves on. You decide he is like a rooster among hens. He comes to you. He kneels. Your heart thrums in your ears. You lay flat and pretend to sleep. You smell him. You’ve smelled him before but not like tonight. He smells of leather, wine and musk.
You feel his hand on your ass. You’ve never felt a man’s hand on your ass like this. Your breath is like a snake in your stomach. He pulls up the bottom of your robe and bunches it at the small of your back. You feel the damp night air on your skin. He wants to see your legs and the shape of your ass and hips. He gently runs a hand from your heel, slowly upward. You’re new. He hasn’t seen you before. Normally he is told if a new slave is bought. But it is not his place to second guess your father. You are here and he is to be your slave master.
His hands glide upward to your inner thigh. A fingertip glances your soft opening and presses. You gasp as the tip enters you. Your toes stiffen. If you turned, if you revealed yourself, his touch would cost him his life, but perhaps yours too. What man wouldn’t conclude that you had long been sleeping with a slave and that, in a lover’s quarrel, you betrayed him? You would be useless to your father. Would he banish you? Would he give you to the slave, to be bred by a slave, then sold in humiliation?
If you reveal yourself– but isn’t this what you desired?
His hand moves upward over the round rise of your ass, then round your waist where he feels your flat and fallow belly. You slap his hand away as you’ve seen the other women do, but he grabs your wrist. You feel small compared to the strength in his fingers. You feel his wrist between your thighs and the palm of his hand against your mons pubis as he lifts you to your knees.
You turn. You look at him, cheek against the straw mat.
He smiles at you and puts his finger to his lips. “I desire you,” he says, his voice deep and accented. “Do not look so fearful. “You are too small to struggle against me but you will find yourself more than my equal as a lover. You will see.” He undresses and he is beautiful, lean, muscular and without hair. His skin glistens with sweat, as though he had been oiled. Even his cock, erect and veined, seems oiled. And it’s for you.
He moves behind you onto his knees.
You want to turn, to see him, but his giant hand is at the small of your neck and he turns you to look at the far wall as though you were forbidden. You’re shaking when you feel his warmth, the broad head of his prick, press at your opening. He is gentle but firm. With a slow, forward and uncompromising motion of his hips, he mounts you – a slave girl. There will be no turning back. As you are filled, as you feel a man for the first time, both the pain and the pleasure, you are a slave girl and you are finally freed.
“Enjoy, little one.”
His thrusts are slow and deep and he lingers when he’s deepest. He doesn’t withdraw for another slow forward swing of his muscular hips until you groan with his fullness. The young woman who had been the water gatherer is watching your insemination through the darkness. Soon, you are sweating and moaning each time you feel the full length of him. You grunt as though you were lifting a giant weight and feeling it deep in your gut.
“Soon, little one,” he purrs as your fingers grip the straw mat and your breaths come in quick, short gasps. He presses again. Then your mouth silently opens and your eyes flutter. You feel a first brief spurt like a ghostly twitch deep in your womb, then the long thick strings of semen that no one else can see. Your upturned abdomen is filled.
No, you say, that’s not what happens.
What merchant would want his slaves endlessly impregnated? Such a man would breed his slaves judiciously.
This was Rome, I say. Maybe he would have the slave master impregnate a slave girl for the entertainment and titillation of guests? The readied woman would be brought in and she would be mounted. The slave master would not be permitted to impregnate her until the guests were at the peek of their pleasures. The slave girl’s hands would be bound at the small of her back and she would be told to bend over, but not to allow any part, but her knees, to touch the floor. This would cause her to strain and sweat as she was taken from behind. She would be beautiful as she strained and the slave master’s cock moved in and out of her. She would be orgasmic with exhaustion. The guests would cry, Now! The poor slave would shake her head even as her womb was filled from behind – serving her master. And what if, I say, this was done to his daughter, in his own presence, and he never recognized her.
It wouldn’t be believable, you say.
The merchant’s daughter is still the daughter of a wealthy man. She would barely let a slave master touch her, let alone violate her. Maybe she suffers, but her suffering is selfish. She’s also arrogant and haughty. She knows she will need money.
I think I know what happens, I say.
 Escape: She Changes the Story
Before she disguises herself as a slave, she hides money in the furthest reaches of her father’s garden, a place not watched over at night and too concealed to be seen from her father’s residence.
I take you back to the slave’s quarter’s. As the slave master’s hand moves upward over the rise of your ass, then round your waist to feel your fallow belly, you slap his hand away as you’ve seen the other women do. He grabs your wrist. You feel small compared to the strength in his fingers but also furious that a salve would dare to touch you. When he sees your family bracelet, silver, thick and ornately inscribed with your family’s crest, he meets your gaze with shock and also fear. What does he think? He is not a stupid man. He didn’t choose his life anymore than you.
He lets go of you and stands, naked and gleaming, cock hard and arching upward.
You push down your robe, back over your ass, and stand. “Take me to the garden,” you hiss, hoping there no other women awake. “Take me to the garden and I will not tell my father that you have touched me. You are dirt. You are filth. You are repugnant to me. You are nothing but a slave and a dog.” He glances at his hempen clothes but you fearful and impatient. “No!” you hiss. “Go! Now! You don’t deserve them!”
He leads you. Imagine you see the broad muscles of his back in front of you. Imagine you can smell him and that his waist is narrow and his buttocks are sculpted and firm. The divide of his back begins between his shoulder blades and disappears into the masculine darkness where, at he very bottom, between his thighs, his ball sack hangs. Even in the dark of your fear, you are ashamed of what he arouses, the strange desires of your tongue, your breasts and thighs.
You follow the slave master to the place in the garden where your money is hidden.
You dig and search frantically, your finger nails packed with soil until you find the leather sack and its coins. You are filthy. A snapping twig startles you! You have been found out! Your father only keeps a handful of guards, but one of them as discovered you. He sneers at you and you realize that he doesn’t recognize you! He thinks you’re a slave. “Dirty little thief,” he says.
He lunges for you. Who knows what he plans. Perhaps he means to rape and kill you before he takes the money for himself. Or perhaps raping you is enough of a reward. Before he touches you the slave master powerful knocks the guard off balance. A struggle ensues. The guard is well armed. The slave master is naked but his cruel life has made fit and strong. He subdues the guard; but not before has face and abdomen have been slashed by the guard’s sword. The slave master holds the sword the guard’s throat, stained with his own blood. Your sack and it’s coinage litters the garden at your feet, glittering in the moonlight.
“Why?” the slave master asks you harshly.
“I–” you fumble for words.
“Why?” he asks again. “You want to be free?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Say it or I will let him go.”
“Yes,” you cringe tearfully, “I want to be free.” You know why he asks the question. He doesn’t allow you to avert your eyes when he kills the guard.
“Such is the price of freedom,” he says.
When it is over, he collapses. You want to scream. You want to return to your father. You want to beg for forgiveness. “Take the money,” you say instead, seeing his wounds. “Take the money and flee or you will be killed. Such is the price of a slave. Take it and run as far as you can run. My father will stop at nothing to find me and punish you.”
As you flee you pray there is enough strength in him to survive.
Now, you say, she goes into wilderness.
I can’t go the cities or towns. I’m filthy and covered in grime. The guard’s blood has sprayed my clothes. I throw them off and bury them. But for the silver bracelet, I run naked. My feet are cut and bleed on the small rocks and sharp twigs. I run into a landscape of scrub, orchards, cactus, palm, stone pine, bay laurel and cypress.
You run too quickly and too blindly. It is when you stumble over fallen branch and your throat strikes the stump of another tree, when pain causes your back to arch, your fingers to claw at the earth and your heels to kick as though you were being strangles, as though you were the guard whose throat was cut. When you cannot breath and your vision fades, you finally stop running.
 The Companionship of Wolves
You do not wake the next morning. Your waking moments during the day are like horrible hallucinations. A terrible pain swelling has seized your throat. At times you can breathe. At other times blackness creeps into your vision and consciousness fades. At times you wake. A boy holds a cup of water to your lips as his other hand lifts your head. A girl wipes your face with a damp cloth. She cleans your arms and your legs.
You sleep another night.
The next day there are more hallucinations and visions.
Again, as on the day before, a boy and a girl tend to you. You sleep another night and finally the visions and hallucinations break. You waken on the second morning. You are burned from having lain in the sun. Your lips and nipples are swollen. You are hungry and desperate for water. Your throat still aches and burns with pain, but you can breathe and the desire for water is greater than the pain. A damp cloth falls from our forehead. You don’t know if the boy and girl were a hallucination but you cannot wait. You must drink. You slowly and achingly push yourself to your hands and knees. You struggle to your feet and at first you fall, dizzy. You struggle to stand again, and this time you begin a slow and struggling walk. Water is not hard to find.
You come to a small stream, big enough to drink from but not enough to cool your skin.
The water is a balm to your lips and throat but the sun on your back is a searing flame. You need shade as much as you need water. You follow the stream uphill, not down, knowing that where the land is steeper there will be water falls and pools.
Your feet bleed again before you hear the sound of water falling. By the time you reach the broad pool, you half stumble, half fall into the cool water. You drink and swim at the same time and after swimming as soothed you, you clean the mud from your feet, hands and face. You clean the blood from your own throat. You discover, as though the gods had punished you in kind for the death of the guard, that you cannot speak.
There are fig trees that surround the pool. You stay here until your feet heel and the swelling in your throat has subsided. You have become thinner and leaner. Your burn has darkened your skin so that you look like one of the poor girls of the country. You are also naked and you are not clever enough to coax leaves or vines into clothing.
One day you laugh.
You laugh and then you cry. You’re free. You’re free of clothes, money, prestige, and property. You are nothing more than what you are – a naked woman. And yet you feel as though you possess the world, as though the sun were yours, as though the moon visited only you, as though the wind at your breasts and between your thighs were your lover.
The pool becomes your home. You find a narrow shelf in the rock ledge behind pool into which you can just fit and sleep protected form the weather. At first your covering and mattress are leaves, but leaves do little to cushion or keep you warm. As health returns to you, you wander further from the pool. The soles of your feet have roughened and the small stones, upturned twigs and sticks no longer cut or abrade you.
You’ve grown to love the feel of the grasses against your lips. You learn to move quietly and with stealth. You learn how to approach wild animals without alerting them. You discover where fawns sleep and find the wolves that hunt them.
You like the wolves.
You observe them carefully and when they have killed and eaten their fill, you taste raw flesh for the first time. Blood drips from your chin and breasts. You roll in the ground like you have seen them do and the dirt sticks to the blood.
One day the wolves return to a kill unexpectedly. They surround you curious and fearful and the same time. Their snouts curl and their teeth bare. The hair lifts on their rigid backs and you cower next to the carcass of a dead boar. The leader lowers his head and approaches. The others follow and you do what you have seen the other wolves do.
You role onto your back. You open your legs wide, knees to your side and you bare your neck. The largest of the animals quickly approaches you. You piss. The wolf suddenly hesitates and sniffs the piss pooling and flowing back to your ass. You feel his nose, warm and broad, push at your ass and delicately touch your sex. The last of you pee dribbles. You feel his breath at your opening before he moves to your belly. You know that he watches, skittish, fearful and ready to kill. For the first time you notice a shock of white fur above his right ear.
He rounds your still open legs and sniffs the blood at your breasts. He growls and you feel his breath at your throat. He smells of dirt, blood, urine and earth. The smell is beautiful. He turns as though curious to smell something just under and behind your hear. He snarls again, before his jaws snap. You flinch, all of you, but you don’t move. The bite was to fast to feel pain. The wolf is done. He turns to the slain boar and rips meat from the carcass. The other wolves pass by and around you, some together and some by turns, taking more meat from the carcass. You lift your trembling hand to your temple and cheek. The wolves pay no attention to you.
Your hand is bloody. The wolf has left a gash from below your temple almost to the corner of your lip. You slowly roll over onto your side and lean up on one elbow.
You bleed but your heart races with joy.
You are one of the wolves. You wait until the last wolf has pulled meat before the carcass. Then you crawl to it on your hands and knees and take your turn even though, in your excitement, you only hunger for their companionship. Later that night, when the wolves howl close to the pool where you sleep, you roll out of your ledge to the edge of the pool. You feel wild. You feel free and powerful. For the first time since fleeing your father’s house, your fingers reach between your thighs. You widen your knees and you lean one hand while the rubs your clit.
Your moisture drips through your fingers into the pool and ripples the moon beneath you. You burn. Your belly burns. You feel a need such as you have never felt before. Your youthful body aches and you rhythmically thrust the entry to your womb to the nothingness behind you.
Your breath catches and your knees widen. You arch your back as though to give yourself to something, anything, to the world that is water, waterfall, shrubs, trees, wolves and woods. You invite it all inside you. Your breasts hang heavy under you and swing. Your nipples are mature and stiff. They hang under you, each elongated and angled away from the other, as though waiting to be sucked.
You howl and your breath catches with a quick inhalation.
Your eyes roll and your back arches stiffly. Your knees widen and dig into the dirt as though to fully offer your womb. What you do is both understood and beyond your understanding, a need that compels you lower your head before you have your first orgasm.
You make no sound now. Your body convulses powerfully. Each spasm drops your head and lifts your ass. When it is over, the wolves have quieted and your fluids run down your thighs.
You slowly straighten and stand on two feet.
You are beautiful.
You follow the wolves the next and the day after that.
 Shepherds at Night: His Version
You pad your ledge in the rock with the tanned pelts of animals. You learned at least that much from your father’s traded in hides. You remain naked. You are lean and healthy. You move quietly and knowingly. Your body is young and plaint. The scar the wolf has left is like talisman, the marking of a clan. Other wolves seem to recognize you and accept you without hesitation. They are not afraid to walk next to you, to hunt with you, or to warn you when there is danger.
When the wolves are at ease and sit and the shade of trees. You squat and bring yourself to the same pleasure as on the night of the wolves’ howling. You squat, one hand flat on the earth, the other between your legs until your fluids dampen the grass beneath you and you can say nothing but gaze sightlessly at the canopy of the trees. The wolves watch.
Long after the scar has healed, they bring you a day’s journey from your home at the pool. From a rocky overlook, you see two shepherds and sheep. That night, after wolves have killed one of the sheep, you remain behind to observe the two boys.
The shepherds build a large fire and the wolves are frightened by it.
They lose interest and leave while you approach closer and closer to the youths. You feel as though you have almost forgotten what men look like.
You wait and you approach after the youths have fallen asleep.
You walk down the long embankment, through tall grass and among the sleeping sheep.
You move quietly and deftly. They have both fallen asleep on their backs. The fire casts a red light on them and the long flickering shadows of the grass and unburnt sticks. You squat next to the one whose hair is the same color as yours. You study his lips as though you had never seen a man’s lips before. You study his nose, closed eyes, ears and brow. You smell him. You carefully lick his throat, tasting him. And when that is no longer enough, and you feel the burning in your womb, you begin to untie his tunic.
His chest is broad and tanned. His nipples are like yours but their aureole are larger. You want to kiss them and suck them. You do. He stirs but doesn’t wake. Your hand smoothly glides downward to his crotch and you feel his penis. You subtly press and massage it, feeling it broaden, lengthen and harden. When the young man’s eyes finally flicker and open, your are astride him and your finger as at his lip silencing him.
He stares up at you in shock and fright, but you smile.
What is a young man to think? You are beautiful and you know your beauty gives you power over him. He is subdued by it. Perhaps he thinks you’re a sylph or a nymph from the surrounding woods. You are lean and your belly is flat. Your breasts your taut and your nipples upright.
You feel powerful but also strangely and equally bewitched by him.
The feel of his cock between your thighs makes your opening ache. Without touching him, you swivel your hips so that the tip of him glides between the lips of your pussy and catches at the dimple that is slick and swollen with readiness. There is not catch or hesitation. His cock easily opens you and smoothly slides inside you, filling a place that had never felt empty until now. The length of him is in your belly and your mouth is open. Your fingers criss-cross on his chest and you begin to rise and fall with a need that defies you.
The young man gasps and squirms underneath you, but you have trapped him in your belly.
He fears you. You can see it in his eyes. Does he think you’re a wolf girl? Doesn’t he know you’re as vulnerable and filled with need as he is? You seem him glance at his sleeping mate but you quickly turn his head, forcing him to look you. “Who are you?” he whispers.
You shake your own head and rise and fall more quickly. You point at your throat. You cannot speak. He thinks you don’t know how to speak. He thinks you’re like the animals, wild, dangerous – wolfgirl.
You see his breathing change.
Perhaps he’d like to escape? But he can’t. His body answers the call of yours. His back begins to arch. His breath begins to catch and falter as your womb calls for what is hers. His hands scrape at his sides, at the earth, as though he resisted you. The muscles of his abdomen tighten.
You continue to rise and fall more and more quickly.
You see in him what you see in animals when they know they cannot escape. You sense it and it only makes you hasten the hunt. You fall one last time, press down, and grind your clit back and forth against his groin. His cock press deeply and stiffly inside as you pivot, and you orgasm. You can feel your abdomen gripping him again and again. Even if you wanted to, you could not lift yourself from the pleasure of a man inside, even as his spurts begin to fill your womb you pursue your own pleasure, seduced by it, forgetful of the powerful stalk seeding you.
After the seizures have past, you sit atop him as though stunned.
The feverish need has passed. The youth beneath you stares sightlessly at the stars above, his procreative juices drawn out of him. He lies loosely and exhausted. You dispel the urge to lie next to him. You stand slowly and slowly the youth’s long cock slides out of you belly, glistening and still thick, until it flops on his abdomen.
You feel your own abdomen, still flat and firm, but strangely warm and soft beneath. You turn and disappear into the darkness, carrying your lover inside you.
Are you saying she’s pregnant? – you ask.
Men write erotica as though women can’t say no.
No, I don’t.
Then why would she get pregnant?
She’s young, wanted to make love. When you’re young sex feels too good to stop.
No, the first time hurts.
I know women who had orgasms the first time.
No you don’t. I don’t think she would allow him inside her. He’s not the one she wants. She wants someone else. Let me tell you what really happened.
 Shepherd at Night: Her Version
I stay behind after the wolves have lost interest to spy on the youths.
The younger shepherd is still frightened that the wolves will return, the older paces with a spear. When the younger youth won’t be calmed, the older shepherd leaves the fire’s light. If I run, I’ll be seen. I crouch in the shadow and fear pricks my neck. The older shepherd is ean and strong. I know I could outrun him, but his spear frightens me.
I am quiet. I do not breathe.
He comes so close I can smell him. He peers over and somehow doesn’t see me. The light of the fire both helps him and conceals. Though the fire’s light flickers in the hillside’s grasses, the fire also makes the shadows darker. Though he almost stands next to me, he doesn’t see me. He thrusts the spear into the ground next to him and he withdraws his cock. After so long, the site of a man’s cock so close by pricks something in my womb that isn’t fear.
His cock is tumescent, not hard. Is he also frightened? I wonder if fear also arouses him. I see him glance at his companion huddled by the fire and he begins to slowly stroke his cock. My hips and arms are beginning to ache and burn with the effort to remain still. He thrusts his hips forward and he pisses. How can he not see me? Though his urine doesn’t strike me, it splashes my hair and back, marking me.
When he is done, he quickly yanks the spear out of the ground and returns purposefully to his companion.
I watch him as he takes his companion’s elbow, yanks him to his feet, and tenderly kisses him, brushing the youths’ long hair out of his eyes and soothing him with words she can’t hear. My heart races. If he were as close now, as he had been, he would have heard my breath. When he yanks open the younger shepherd’s tunic and suckles the man’s breast, the opening to my womb, behind me, warms and dampens. Both men are muscular. Their skin is warmed and flows with the flames next to them.
The older of the two squats. He frees his companion’s cock, arching, full and already twitching. The younger man inhales with a keening pleasure as his older companion takes his cock in his mouth. He thrusts his hip forward and lifts his gaze skyward, knotting his fingers in the older man’s curly hair.
I imagine my own mouth on the youth’s cock.
I imagine squatting behind the older youth, my breasts pressed against his broad back. I lick his ear and lips as he sucks his companion’s cock. I reach in front of him, down, and stroke his cock, hanging almost to the ground. If they would only let me, if I didn’t fear them, I wouldn’t let them move from this position. I would stroke him until his companion released in his mouth and as his mouth filled he would groan powerfully, spurting his own white fluids between their feet as I pumped him. How could I not bite his neck and shoulder as he shuddered? I would lick his companion’s effluence from his lips and chin. I would lick from his own cock and balls if only to hear once more, a man’s pleasurable moan.
But I don’t dare move.
The older youth tightens his grip on the younger man’s hips as he sucks and when he tastes the first beginnings of his companion’s orgasm, he stops. He stands. He draws he friend into a passionate kiss, his hands on the younger man’s ass. I can’t help imagining what their embrace feels like, both their heavy cocks pressed against each other. The younger man’s hips are moving forward and back against the older youth’s groin, brought so close to release. The older shepherd draws the younger man’s cheek against his breasts, tenderly, and kisses the top of his head. The younger man’s hips continue to rock and his friend seems to caress him with understanding and compassion.
The older one pushes the youth to the ground, onto his back, opens his legs and pushes his knees back as though the youth were a woman. I hear a high-pitched gasp as the younger shepherd is entered. They both arch as both feel the depth of the other.
I want to touch them. I want to kiss. My hand is between my thighs, my finger’s tip against my clit. My breasts feels soft and heavy against my arm as I stroke myself.
The older shepherd thrust, short sharp thrusts, as his friend’s muscles, his calves and thighs, continue to tense. He finally reaches forward, cupping the younger man’s cheek. His other hand gently caresses his companion’s cock as he thrust’s. He nods as if to encourage his younger lover, as to comfort him, calm him and give him permission.
I imagine, once again, behind behind the older lover.
I imagine my hand around the older man’s hand which is itself around his companion’s cock. I feel the heat of them both and stroke in time with the older youth. I imagining pressing my finger into the older man’s anus and encouraging his thrusts.
The younger man’s muscular body stiffens impossibly, my own orgasm sparks in time with the younger man’s cry. His spurts arch and smear the young man’s own face and chest. His spasms are fast and rich with fluid. The older shepherd shudders as he releases inside his companion. I imagine the feel of his contractions on my finger as his pleasure overtakes him.
I cry out with the clenching deep in my womb and both men turn, startled.
I do not hear the spear land close to where I had been hiding. The older shepherd had thrown it, blindly, without knowing who or what it was.
I ran, wild, fierce and free.
I continue: When you return to your pool, sore and breathless, you fall gratefully into the water.
 She Dreams: Her Lover Comes to Her
You only belatedly notice the pack of wolves that surround you. You feel no fear. You feel safer than you felt with the shepherds. The largest wolf, the wolf that scared your face, quietly watches as you bathe. You cannot fully clean the smell of the shepherd’s urine from your hair or shoulders and know that he smells it. He lifts his snout and sniffs but his blue eyes are inscrutable. Tonight, instead of sleeping in your ledge, you move on hands and knees, slowly, until you press your back against the warm fur of a she-wolf. She licks you behind the hair before lowering her chin to the earth.
You dream that night.
Or at least you think you dream. You open your eyes and a half moon reflects from the rippling pool. The wolves no longer surround you, but men and women whose hair is gray like the wolves. They have miens like the wolves and their calloused hands and feet are covered with a fine gray fur. Even in their sleep you sense their pride, wildness, and nobility. You push yourself up on one hand and your hip. The wolf-woman with which you sleep stirs and slowly opens her eyes.
She is older, beautiful, and you sense both kindness and bemusement.
She too pushes herself up onto her hip and one hand. With the other hand, long black and gray nails, she touches your lips, then slowly traces down your throat, pauses at your nipples until you shudder and then places her opening hand at base of your belly, at your womb, and softly presses. She leans and gently kisses you, smiles, then turns her back to lie down again.
“Mater,” says a little girl’s voice from across the pool. You quickly turn, startled.
A beautiful girl, half wolf and half human it seems to you, gazes at you, naked, her silver hair covering her hips and falling to her ankles. She carries a quiver of arrows on her back and holds a bow. You know with an intuition and love both tender, fierce and all consuming that this little girl is your daughter. You feel as fiercely protective of this girl as of anything you have every loved or could love. She is your beautiful daughter.
“Mater,” says the little girl. “It is time.”
You here the snapping of twigs and footfall. You turn furiously, now on the balls of your feet and palms of your hand, ready to spring and kill. The wolves have woken with you. They too, dark and shadowy, turn and crouch in the half-clouded shadows of the moon light. All of you turn in one direction. You see the older shepherd. He has followed you! He carries a spear.
You immediately glance, protectively, across the pool but the girl, your daughter, is gone, as if she had never stood there.
The hair on your neck rises. If only you could speak, but you can’t.
The shepherd approaches you, spear ready, and the other wolves, half-wolves, half men and women circle darkly, crouching, to his side and behind him. Their muscles are tense and ready to spring, but the shepherd only seems to see you. He lowers his spear to his side and then you see what else he carries. His cock is full and bends stiffly upward from his groin. His balls hang heavily between his thighs. Is he real? Is it the smell of him, his urine, that evokes his presence?
He frightens you. You both desire what he offers and you fear him.
The wolves back away leaving you alone, or so you think, but this is not your fight. You are distracted by a movement behind you, then you silently scream in pain. The shepherd has driven the spear’s tip through your hand into the ground, pinning you on your hands and knees. You frantically try to remove the spear with your other hand but cannot. The ground beneath your hand beings to pool with blood and spreads as though it would cover the earth surrounding you, the water, and the wolves. The shepherd begins to move behind you and you see what distracted you.
The leader of wolves, the man-wolf who scarred you, is shaking and tense with rage, ready to spring. You see the white hair above his right ear, his lips are tight bare his teeth and your eyes widen when you recognize his powerful body and muscles – the slave master! It is both him and not him – his dream spirit in the body of the wolf.
He gazes you at you, not the shepherd who begins to kneel behind you.
He gazes at you, his eyes filled with rage. He trembles with rage. “Please,” you whisper. It is all you can do. “Please.”
Still, he doesn’t move. His abdomen quivers. His cock is full and engorged, the tip touching the fine gray fur at his belly button. He waits.
“Please,” you beg, whispering, tears falling from your cheeks as you feel the shepherd’s cock begin to press at your opening. “I want to be free.”
The man-wolf springs with a fury too quick to see.
The shepherd is carried over you by impact. The man and man-wolf struggle. The man-wolf, or is it the slave master, looks as though he would rip the shepherd’s throat with his teeth. The shepherd draws a dagger. You cannot move, you are faint with pain. Your blood continues to spread and color the earth beneath and around you.
The shepherd draws blood from the pack leader. They are the same gashes, in the same places, as the slave master’s! But the man-wolf is himself too powerful and fast. He breaks the dagger on a stone, still in the shepherd’s own hand. He throws the shepherd onto his back and keeps his hand powerfully around the shepherd’s throat until his struggle begins to weaken. His arm is like a pillar, and though the shepherd struggles to weaken the grip or move the arm, he fails.
When the shepherd is weakest, the man, the wolf, the slave master turns him over onto his belly and lift his ass with a knee between his thighs. The shepherd cries out as he is mounted. The man-wof’s thrusts are sharp and pitiless. The shepherd cries out, his eyes and mouth wide, with each thrust. Each cry his sharper and higher-pitched than the last until his eyes roll, he looses all voice or breath, and he helplessly submits. His semen spurts from him, his cock twitches and jerks underneath him and you can hear each pulsing spray the rocks under him.
His body shudders with each convulsion until he is listless.
The wolf, the man, the slave-master, withdraws, still hard and poweful. The shepherd remains motionless, his fluids submissively forced out of him and wasted on the cold earth beneath him. He groans and collapses onto his side.
The man-wolf stands and comes to you.
He yanks the spear out of the earth and out of your hand and it turns into a black smoke that spirals and dissipates above you. The pain in your hand recedes, the blood that stained the earth turns to a soft moss, and the open wound of your hand closes into a white scar.
He knees next to you and kisses your neck, your shoulder and the small of your back. You gaze up at him, tears still staining your eyes, as he feels the weight of your breasts in his other hand. You press them until his hand and when you feel his other hand take the curve of your buttocks, you lift and raise your ass into his palm.
His touch is gentle and loving.
You must do one thing first. You rise onto your knees, but bow your head. You cup his balls in one hand and take his erect cock, which your fingers can barely round, and lead him by it to the pool. You clean his cock and groin with the water. You clean his balls and thighs and, as you do this, he cleans your shoulder and hair with the same water. He finally rinses the smell of the shepherd from your body. You gently take his cock into your mouth, Your lips softly close round him and your tongue cups the base of his cock’s broad helmet. You will not let him go. As he moves, your mouth moves with him, back and forth, sucking him. Finally, his hand more tightly grips the back of your neck and you lower your head to the earth.
He moves behind you.
You close your eyes, cheek pressed against the moss, and open your mouth.
You feel the presence of the other wolves, watching, around you. You exhale silently and your eyes open whitely as he enters you from behind. Your arch for him. You open for him. Feel the tip of him at your womb and you give him this too.
He touches you as he thrusts slowly, smoothly and proudly. He traces your spine with the tip of his finger, with the hard, dark nail of his finger. He feels the slender inward curve of your waist and the flair of your hips as he moves in and out of you. He gently tugs at your dreadlocked hair and you willfully arch your neck and back for him. He reaches under you and feels the ready weight of your breasts as you feel the ridge of his bulb slide slickly back and forth in your belly.
You begin to feel other touches.
Never until now have you so regretted the loss of your voice. You wish that you lover could hear you as he takes you, inseminates and impregnates you. You wish you express your joy and pleasure at his mating. You would moan for him. You groan and cry out with each thrust. They would tell him how deeply he goes, how he pierces you to the heart, how your need is like a hardens your nipples, flushes your breasts and face with sweat and continues to widen your knees and lift your womb.
You begin to feel other touches.
The she-wolf with whom you had slept, touches your clit. Other wolves lick your ribs, press and pull at your nipples, as though readying them for milk, and lick your neck. When you orgasm, you see nothing but the dark of your eyelids, the muscles of your abdomen and opening powerfully clench the length of cock that so deeply penetrates you from behind.
You can do nothing but lift your ass and offer the cup of your womb as the muscles of your thighs clench and release with the invitation of your orgasm.
The she-wolf continues to press, circle and massage your clit as your mate cries out and you feel the first strong gushing of his semen.
He holds you tightly, back arched, stiff, unmoving, before his powerful orgasm continues, this time unceasing and rapid. You feel his syrupy warmth and wetness flow into you and spread into the base of your breath, your breasts and even your throat.
You feel his pulsing, gushing flow, his pleasure, pour into your toes and your lips.
One last convulsion and he is done.
You are mated.
He slowly withdraws, his juices working inside you and you both fall to the earth together, spooning.
The other he- and she-wolves leave you, circle and lie down.
Your lover’s cock wetly softens between your dripping thighs and you are satisfied.
Is this how you will get me pregnant? – you ask.
Yes, I say.
I like it. What will she do now? Does she know what the dream means?
There is one freedom she hasn’t tasted, one wildness, but love will find her.
 The Goddess Consoles Her
When you wake in the morning, the wolves are gone.
You quickly rise to one knee. As you do, a warm wet and slippery flow, as though your sex and womb were full and still ready to overflow, collects between the lips of your opening and drips down your thigh. You quickly look at your hand. It is scarred! You look across the pool and you see the shepherd, face down, one hand above his head and palm down, the other down at his side, palm up. The is blood beneath him.
Your thighs drip but you hurry to the shepherd’s side. You turn him over.
He is wounded but alive! His spear lies broken beneath him and you recognize the wounds. They are the marks of wolves.
You don’t want him to die. Though he is broader and heavier than you, you lift him. Your youth and wildness give you strength.
You must rest every so often, and for the first time since you fled your father’s, your feet bleed with the extra weight you carry. After nearly a day’s journey under a sun that is too hot, on a path on which there is too little shade, your reach the outskirts of the small city you had fled.
Men, women and children stare at you.
Men follow you. You are naked but are like a wolf-child to them. Why do you carry a shepherd on your shoulder. Who has wounded him? They do not offer to help or even stop you. Are they afraid of you? Do they think you are a magical or mythical being? They ask you questions but you cannot answer and this makes them think you are wild or dumb animal who has never learned to speak.
You carry the shepherd to the one place where you think you will be safe – the Temple of Diana. By this time a dozen men follow you and dozens more, including women and children, stare at you from corners, windows and shop stalls.
None of the men dare follow you into the temple.
The women of the temple, at first, are frightened at the sight of you, but not so frightened as the men. They rush to your aid and you are glad to be in the cool shade of the marble pillars and roof. The women acolytes take the shepherd from your shoulder and quickly carry him to another place – though he is wounded, even a wounded man is forbidden to be within Diana’s temple.
You, they succor.
You lean, exhausted, on the shoulder a woman while another helps you take weight from your bleeding feet. They have lost their of you. “Thank you,” you whisper and suddenly they look at you with pity and understanding. They take you to place where there is a marble pool. At the far end is a statue of Diana, she stands with a quiver of arrows at her back, a bow in one hand and a hind lowering his head beneath her other hand.
The women lower your feet into the pool and bathe them.
They bring you water, fruit, and soothing balms as though you were sacred.
They wipe your bruised breasts and shoulders with loam and gently clean them, cleansing your armpits, nipples, lips, eyes, ears, shoulder blades, hips and thighs with gentle hands. Fingers part your vagina to clean you there, too. There is still a lover’s moisture there they find it. The women smile knowingly and lovingly.
The sense the pleasure you enjoy in being touched there, but their touch isn’t mean to arouse, but to soothe and calm. When you are finally cleaned, they bring a robe – the first clothing you have worn since you fled your father’s.
You ask after the shepherd, in a whispering voice, and the women reassure you. He is no longer your concern. You stay for a week and your feet heel. The ache in your shoulder and arms fade. The women, from time to time, trace the scar on your face and press a finger’s tip at the strange white scar that pierces your hand. At the end of the week, you are strong enough to leave, but the women tell you that the oracle awaits you.
They treat you as though you were holy.
They guide to the place they themselves cannot enter, and disrobe you. You are comfortable. Your nakedness feels natural to you. You enter the black chamber where, at the far end, a faint blue flame flickers. You smell a gaseous older that makes you dizzy and you increasingly struggle to approach the flame until, having reached it, you fall dizzily and weakly to your knees, only then realizing that the gaseous odor could have been escaped by kneeling.
But there is design in this room and visitors are meant to breathe the gas deeply before they fall to their knees.
“Welcome child,” says a voice.
You look up, dizzy and uncertain as to what’s real and what is not. You hallucinate, or do you?
A strange woman, a giant woman, reaches across the blue flame and her giant hand gently cups your chin then brushes your cheek. “Welcome. Welcome, my beautiful, beautiful, child. Speak.”
“I– I can’t,” you say, and then you are stunned at the sound of your own voice. You have not heard it in years. You gaze up at the woman. Her clothes are both there and not there. They are like a smoke that swirl around. She is more beautiful and powerful than any being you have ever beheld. You are in awe of her. You fear her. You desire to be held and soothed by her. Her hair is like a blue smoke that doesn’t rise, but floats in the air and swirls around her as she moves, over her breasts,
under her arms, and round her waist. She moves behind you and every touch brings a bliss that is nothing like the bliss of a lover’s touch. This is like the bliss of light, knowledge and understanding.
“Speak,” she says to you, her soft voice big, powerful and inside you, “my child. You are whole.”
“Forgive me,” your voice breaks and sobs uncontrollably.
“Forgive me,” you cry, tears falling. “Please forgive me.”
“Forgive you?” She flows around you like water in air and you are shaken by the love and acceptance that flows through you.
“I don’t deserve this.”
Her giant lips come close to your ears. “You are my child,” says says softly and soothingly. “All women are my children. What wrong could you have done? You are beautiful. A child already burns brightly in your womb – our womb. Do you feel her?”
“Yes,” you sob.
“How beautiful you are. How I love you. You are perfection. I created you and you create me. You are in me and I am in you. Always. There is no love like my love for you. You carry me inside you. You will be my mother and I will be holy.”
“I have failed you,” you sob.
“You exalt me. No man defiles you. A woman is holy and cannot be defiled by a man. Take joy in your womanhood. Heart of my heart. Womb of my womb. Soul of my soul. I know what is in your heart, so different from the heart of men. Do you berate yourself because you are mortal? Who does not suffer who is mortal? Who does not regret? Who does fear? Why would I give you the gift of mortality if I did not love you, forgive you and cherish you? Who does not seek blindly the gifts so easily beheld? Your faults are my faults.” The goddess moves like a wave about and through you. You rock as you weep. “You are precious to me. Tell me what you desire, my child, my love, my beautiful, beautiful child.”
“But you know.”
“Yes,” she almost whispers. “But tell me.”
“I want to be free.”
“You are afraid to be free. But do not be afraid my child. Love awaits you.”
“How will I find it.”
“Surrender,” whispers the Goddess. “And love will free you.”
“I am always with you,” the giant Goddess smiles and your consciousness fades. You fall to the floor.
 A Slave to Slaves
When you wake, you are naked, in the street, at the bottom steps of the temple.
Men leer at you but they will not touch you as long as any part of touches Diana’s temple. No man has lived for longer than a day, their heart pierced through by Diana’s arrow, who has affronted the Goddess. Perhaps men do not see the arrow, but the women know and see it and know what the men have done.
You push yourself to your feet.
You walk step onto the dusty, sun-warmed cobblestones of the street. You do not look at the men but begin your walk out of the city.
If there were every any women who watched, they have gone away and hidden. Now just two or three men follow you out of the city and into the arid land that surrounds it. You hear them approach you and you don’t turn. You close your eyes, you lift your arms, and you surrender.
A strong blow to your back sends you face first into the dry, sandy soil. You make no sound, your voice is gone again.
“A wild she-wolf,” says one of the men.
“An animal.” Another kicks your legs apart and lifts your ass by your hips. The other holds you by the neck against the ground. There are three of them, their faces red, their skin rough and worn. “Wait!” says the third one. He kneels and roughly twists the silver bracelet off your arm – the bracelet that has always been there. You weep quietly. “I know the family who this bracelet belongs to,” says the third man. “There was a man murdered a good many years ago. Heard a slave kidnapped the daughter and a guard was murdered.”
“You think she’s…”
“Nah,” says the third man vigorously. “Look at her. Can’t guess where she’s gotten it. Maybe another slave run with ’em. Bet if we return the bracelet and her with it, they’d string her up like a dog and let her hang there till she rotted.”
“Might be reward in it,” says the first.
“Might be,” says the third, “and might not be.”
The man who’s kicked your legs apart kneels behind you.
“Wait,” says the third. “You ask yourself, what if she is the missing girl. Eh? If she’s the girl, what happens when she tells Daddy some toothless piece of rot fucked her. Then you’ve fucked the governor’s daughter. You’re life won’t be worth the cunt-hair of a whore. The richest man this side of Rome won’t sleep till you’re hanging like a dog.”
“Then we kill her.”
“And what do we get for it. Nothing more than we’d get from a whore and less. Let’s make her somebody else’s problem. I know a man that can price a woman and we’ll all forget we ever saw her.”
“I want to fuck her,” says the man behind you.
“I’ll buy you a string of whores you jack-ass.”
The man behind you stands. “You’ll be paying for ’em then.” He yanks you upright by the hair and yanks your wrists behind your back. The man who had almost raped you savagely kisses you and squeezes your nipple until your knees buckle. You feel his cock against your hip. “You’d have gotten your voice back,” he grins, teeth rotten and missing.
They turn you and lead you back to the city, your wrists painfully bound at the small of your back.
This time no one stares at you.
For all they know you are a runaway slave and that is all they need to know. The three man lead you passed the temple and into a tight alleyway. A channel at the side runs with sewage while the sun beats the walls of the alley angrily. The heat of a city is different from the heat of the wild, and unwelcoming. They lead you roughly into a small doorway, into a dark room lit by a small square opening. You smell dirt dust, and soot. There is a wooden beam that runs across the room, one of many supporting the roof. Iron rings hang from it. A naked boy and a girl, wrists bound over their heads, watch quietly. You recognize them! They were the ones who saved your life, who gave you water and soothed you when you lay unconscious in the sun!
They take you next to the girl, release your wrists, lift them over your head and retie them to the rings. You hear a door creak open and a wiry man enter.
“You?” asks the man, seeing the three men. “Another?”
“Us,” says the third man. “We found her and think she’s worth something.”
“You found her?”
“You don’t believe me?”
“I know where you found her. I saw her yesterday when she walked into the city with the shepherd on her shoulder. You know who she is?”
The third man holds up the silver bracelet. “I got an idea,” he says, rubbing it with his thumb.
The wiry man studies the bracelet. “Put it away. Hide it. Beat the inscription out of it. Take it to another town, one far from here, and sell it for the metal. Then forget you ever saw or knew about it. I’ll take care of the girl. I suppose you want to be paid for her?”
“That’s right,” says the third.
The wiry man goes back through the door and when he returns he counts out coins in the palms of each of the three men. “Now get out of here,” he says.
They leave and you are alone with the auctioneer. He studies you. His face is gaunt, long and unshaven. He walks behind you, appraising you and pricing you. When he walks in front of you, he traces the scar on your face. His finger’s tip falls to your throat. “Are you the girl?” he asks, but you can’t answer. “His finger finds the fleshy knot in your throat. “Lost your voice?” His finger slides lower and he thumbs your nipple, then lower over the V of your stretched rib cage, then over your belly button, then he parts the lips of your pusy. He presses your clit. “Good. That’s right. Hide it. But you’re wasting your time. With that ass of yours I’ve got a good idea what you’ll be bought for. You’ll get used to a lot more than a finger. That’s a rare pussy and meant for cocks to enjoy.”
The boy’s cock is hard.
“Does it turn you on?” asks the auctioneer, turning to the boy. “It must be hard to be a slave boy. You’ve probably never had a girl. You’ll never get a girl. You’ll be lucky to ever touch one. I bet you’d like to fuck one of these two, wouldn’t you. Just once to feel your pecker inside of a girl. Well, it’s your lucky day. I’m in a giving mood and I want to be entertained. Which one do you want?”
The boy says nothing.
“I won’t ask again,” warns the auctioneer sternly. “I want a little show before I sell you off. It’s a perk of the business.”
“The girl,” mumbles the boy.
“The girl?” smiles the auctioneer. “She’s barely a young women, just freshly blossoming, but good choice.” He moves purposefully to the girl, releases her wrists from the ring and moves her in front of the young man with her back against him. He ties her wrists to the same ring as the boy’s wrists. The auctioneer turns an hourglass in a nook of a wall, as though it were there for this purpose. “Now,” he says. “Take her. You’ll like how a girl feels. Enjoy her. You have until the sand runs down and then I move you back whether you’re done or not.”
The auctioneer releases his cock.
He looks into the girls eyes. “Look at me,” he says to the girl as he strokes his cock. “Look at me while he fucks you. I want to see everything in your eyes.”
The boy looks at the hourglass.
He wants to look into the girl’s eyes but can’t. His cock flares, is red and hard with the feel of the youthful ass against it. He closes his eyes. He bends his knees. And the girls gasps and rises to the balls of her feet as the boy enters her. His eyes roll with pleasure. The girl’s eyes widen.
“Look at me!” says the auctioneer. She blushes furiously as she’s taken from behind. “Yes, that’s it!” The auctioneer reaches between her thighs and circles her clit, suddenly protruding and forced outward by the cock inside her. Her breath catches and she tries to hold it. “That’s it. Fight it. I like that. Fight hard. Hold your breath. It will make it all the more enjoyable. You are made for this.” The girls eyes finally roll. “Come in her now!” The auctioneer snarls at the boy behind her. “Do it! Now! Taker her!” As the girl orgasms, the boy rises to his toes, arches, and drives his gushing cock up and into her, spurting his semen into her orgasm.
The auctioneer releases his own orgasm on the slavegirl’s belly.
If I could get free, you say, I would tear his throat out with my teeth!
She shakes, quivers, and hangs listlessly from the ring as the white flow of the men’s release fills her inwardly and glistens on her abdomen.
“Now you know what you’re for, young woman,” says the auctioneer.
When the auctioneer leaves the room you see something he does not. The young woman turns her head and she passionately kisses the young man. You understand. You know why they have hidden their love. “I’m sorry,” whispers the young man.
“You’re inside me now,” answers the young woman in whisper, “no matter what happens to us.”
 Such is the Price of a Slave
You are woken the next morning as the auctioneer ties a leather strap around your waist and attaches a bell to it. He does the same to the young woman and young man. The bell on the young man hangs from a noose tied around the end of his cock. Then the auctioneer leads the three of you out of the dark and stifling room. Your arms and shoulders ache and burn but the morning air is cool and soothing. The sky is clear. He doesn’t take you far. A crowd has already gathered in the misty, bright morning air.
You are not alone in being auctioned. There are animals before you and other slaves. Then it’s your turn. I have only come to this place by happenstance – or was I guided. I live quietly and in a small place. I have few possessions and have spent little of the money you gave to me. When I see you I forget all that I’ve come for. It’s you! My heart beats savagely and I want to free you but I wait as though disbelieving my eyes.
You are different. You are stronger. You are scarred and there is a wildness in your beauty that arrests me.
I must go to you. You are beautiful and lean. Didn’t I just dream of you? Weren’t you just as you are now? I remember the feel of your breasts. I remember the flatness and strength of your belly. The feel of your hips in my palms come back to me.
I go to you and see me. It is you but I mustn’t reveal my knowing. The auctioneer will know and no price will satisfy him.
You spit on me when I approach you.
Don’t I see you? Your eyes plead with me. I know it because you only spit on me. The auctioneer switches your ass and you twist. Your wrists are bound over your head. What can you do? I touch you. I put the palm of my hand on your lean belly, feeling its muscles, health and readiness as though I didn’t know you. As two dozen other buyers watch and wait, I palm your hips, feeling their curve, strength, and suppleness. They think that I touch you indifferently, the way a man looks into the mouth of a horse before he bids for it, but I can barely the love that burns at my fingers’ tips.
Your glare defies me to touch you again.
I want you to. Defy me. Want me, but fight me. Don’t let them know.
I take your hair in one hand, reaching behind you to do it, and yank your head back, not cruelly, not painfully, but firmly. I feel for your clit with my other hand, and when I find it I press it hard between the broad tip of my finger and your pelvic bone. No man will touch you again, but me. You rise onto your toes, your eyes flutter and you inhale with a stifled groan. I slip a finger into you, to the first knuckle, feel wetness and your involuntary tightening – or is it involuntary? Your eyes beg mine for recognition. Why can’t you speak? I smell and I know your odor, like the smell of soil in the olive grove I dreamed of.
You have become like a proud, wild animal.
You don’t know why I do this. This is what I want every man to think. You are like a young she-wolf. You don’t know why your muscles spasm when I pierce you or understand the strange pleasure I knead with my fingers. They must think you’re wild and can’t speak because you don’t know how. My cock hardens. Your hair is the dark, earthen brown that I saw when I made love to you by the moonlit pool of my dream. It is wild, uncombed and tangled with burdock, twigs and wildflower.
I outbid all others.
Such is the price of a slave. You recognize me. I know, by the way you watch me, you understand. I am the slave-master. I have searched for you from the day you freed me. Are we equal? Haven’t I purchased you with the self-same gold and for the self-same price that you purchased me?
There is a narrow leather tie that goes around your waist and is knotted just at the flat plain beneath your belly button. I silver bell is tied there because a I must always know where my property is. I leave it there. Two more leather straps descend between your legs. They part to either side of your sex making an elegant oval around it. Then they straps come to together, rise together between the divide of your ass, and tie to the strap around your waist.
The purpose of the oval around your pussy is clear.
I walk you over the cobblestone streets. We’re in a Roman outpost, a small garrison town on the Mediterranean. You glare at anyone who dares stare at you. Maybe you’re thinking about what you will do to me once I untie you. Yes. Your eyes plead with me. They plead with joy.
There are fruit and vegetable sellers along the road. I won’t hurry through the streets. You think that I want to show you off. You think I want jealousy. You think I want other men to imagine what I will soon do to you and how I will enjoy you. Maybe you think that I’ve become callous and cruel. No one must know, yet, that I know who you are.
You’re not used to walking on pavement stones but you’re no less graceful.
We have hardly gone out of site of the square, where you were auctioned, and leap at me, wrists till bound behind your back and fiercely bite my shoulder.
I bite your earlobe, you say. I draw blood. You have to listen to me!
I spin round and before I speak you are whispering in my ear. You can whisper! They saved my life! – you plead. You must go back! You must! You must buy them! You must save them!
I shake my head. I have no money. Nothing. I have spent it all.
My wrist! — you whisper fiercely. You bite my lobe until it bleeds. I almost cry out but I spin you around. I see it. The untanned lightness of your skin where the silver bracelet used to be. I know at once what you want me to do. I lead you back to the market square and to the slave merchant who even know takes bids for the young woman.
I unbind your wrists. I take the auctioneer by his throat and lead him out of the square and under an archway. The crowd will assume that I am returning with a disagreement. Such things happen often and the gathered men think nothing of it. There is a brief murmur before the next auctioneer steps in to take his place.
I hold up your wrist and the blood drains from the auctioneer’s face.
He doesn’t suspect that I am the slave-master, the one accused of murder, only that his own life is suddenly at risk. He only knows that I know.
“Where is the bracelet,” I snarl.
“They took it,” he babbles. “Three men. I know their names. I can describe them to you.”
“Give me the other two slaves and I no one need know about you. If they still have the bracelet, let their fate be theirs.”
The slave merchant hesitates. Then he babbles,“take them then! Take them!” Then he describes the three men.
My father will never know about them. If he knows, then he will find us.
No, I say, but the auctioneer doesn’t know. I know these men. I know where to find them. I’ll bring your bracelet back to you, but first; the auctioneer returns to the market square and announces that the young man and girl are no longer for sale. He resentfully yanks them off the auction posts and drags them hurriedly back to the shadowed archway. He pushes both them toward me.
I take them as though I were only indifferently interested in them. I turn you round and I bind your wrists again, then I lead all three of you out of the market square. I live quietly because I know that I am still a hunted man and will be until your father dies. I lead you between olive trees and into my small home. The sun, by now, is brilliant and hot, I release the girl and the young man. I give them clothes.
“You’re free,” I say. “You’re free. Put on the clothes and go. ”
You see tears well in the youths’ eyes, you see them each embrace me and then each other. “Leave us,” you hear me say. When they are gone I gaze at you. Your wrists are still bound behind your back. “You were the wealthy merchant’s daughter once, and I was the slave. Now you are the slave.”
 The Love of Equals
You proudly spit at me.
Yes, want me but fight me, it is both what we want.
“I didn’t choose my life anymore than you did,” I say when you look at me accusingly. “Get on your knees.” You avert your eyes. “Get on your knees, slave.”
I come to you, my hand at your throat. I lick your lips, your chin and the scar that runs from your ear to the corner of your mouth. And yank your head back by the hair and I want to bite you, so much smaller than me, yet so fearless and wild, and I want nothing more than to you tame you and make you mine. I kick your feet apart and your back arches when I cup your sex and firmly press my middle finger inside you. Your back arches and your mouth opens. Your hands twist and grasp emptily behind you. I force you to your knees and kick them apart before you close them.
Want me, you say.
Let me be free. Show me so I can yield to you.
When I’m sure you won’t move, I undress in front of you.
You study my scars with a lover’s recognition but you hide the love, you try to. Your eyes rest on my cock, full and engorged. “Open your mouth,” I say. You spit at me again. Yes, be willing but resist me. I need to prove myself. I come to you and kneel next to you.
You still avert your eyes. I reach for you, suddenly and firmly. I yank your head back and down until your heels are trapped beneath the small of your back, knees wide, ribs and belly stretched as you are arched backward on the floor. We are alone. We are in the center of a rough wood floor. My small home is on a hillside overlooking rooftops, walkways, and the Mediterranean. I hear voices outside, a couple speaking to one another as they walk by on a narrow. Soon, they will hear my voice, perhaps not yours but mine, and it will be a familiar sound – the cries of lovers sounding from the houses during the day and night.
A warm sea-breeze feathers your hair.
I run my finger’s tip, starting at your wounded throat, then between your beautiful breasts and downward over your stretched belly. The lips between your thighs are parted and I trace their soft, wet oval with my finger’s tip. When the tip enters you, you exhale and your eyes flutter. “Obey me,” I say.
I want to.
You tremble and twist, but not to escape my finger, only to engulf it.
I trail my finger out of you, wetly over your clit, then up the dividing indent of your belly. My finger leaves a wet trail until it arrive at your mouth. “Suck it,” I say. You close your eyes and taste yourself. I show proof. I make you taste the proof.
I raise you back to your knees and stand. “Open your mouth,” I say.
You glance up at me, eyelids heavy, and your lips part. When I approach you my cock slips into your mouth with the slightest reach of your lips. Your head moves hack and forth and your knees widen. You suck eagerly now. I close my eyes and groan. Your lips and tongue invite my fluids.
I withdraw my cock.
“Turn around I say. Spread you knees. Bend over. I’m going to fuck you.”
Please, you say. I need to.
You glare at me. Yes, make me force you, but be my lover. I grab your hair again and force you over, your ass in the hair. You’re my slave. I hold you by your wrists, holding them up so that you’re forced to remain bent over. The sound of the small room echoes with the sound of my hand on your ass. You twist beneath me. You struggle. You try yank and tug. I won’t be stopped. Your ass is red. Your nipples are stiff and your breasts are swollen and sway.
Finally, your struggle ends and you arch your back, lift your ass and offer me your womb. You lay your cheek against the floor. Your beautiful swollen lips part. Your eyes focus on nothing. I untie your wrists and the ropes fall loosely over your back. Your breathing is deep and even. Your hands are relaxed and though your wrists are no longer bound, your hands remain yieldingly at the small of your back. I kiss you passionately. I kiss the nape of your neck, your spine, the heart divide of your ass.
I move behind you.
I enter you slowly but unyeildingly. I have waited for and desired this moment. Your hands move to your side, elbows up, palms flat against the cool marble. Your lean legs flatten behind you until only your ass is raised, a triangle of space between your angled hips and the floor. I fill you your upturned womb. I let you feel the full length of my need before I slowly withdraw and descend again.
You are finally free.
There is nothing left to prove, to be forgiven or to forgive; only the presence of your lover inside you.
I feel the depth of you, from the dark moisture of your belly, to the rounded lips of your opening, grip and release me.
I answer you.
Your body moves to receive me.
I stretch and arch, unable to resist the receptiveness of your orgasm.
I cry out, once more the slave to the wild and dangerous beauties of your body. My lovemaking pours out of me, filling your womb. I can do nothing as my body answers yours.
When I fall off you and roll onto my side, you lean and kiss me – my throat, my chest, and nipples. You lick my belly button. You kiss the end of my still twitching cock. You lick it, tasting both of us, and you suck and lick until I’m clean. You nuzzle next to me, your head on my shoulder. Your finger traces the scars on my chest and abdomen. You will take me to the wilderness. You will claim me just have I have claimed you. You will take me out of this small house and the world will be our home.
“Yes,” I answer.
You nod. I wonder if we find each other again and again to relive our love, life after life. I will. I have. In this life your thighs and the bedsheets are wet with me. I draw them over you.
Only you, you say.
☼ William Crimson August 12 2011