The sun was dipping down to the west, a ponderous red
medallion of fire seeping into sky and lake. Squadrons of swifts
hawked and skimmed through clouds of insects smoking over
the waters. Rooks cawed from their roosts. The banks were
hemmed with reeds that jostled like ranks of serried spears,
concealing a puzzle of light and shade in which moorhens and
coots paddled in their own quaint little dreams. The creck and
kowk of their cries drifted forlornly over the surface and mingled
with the honk of frogs among the lily pads. Above the crouching
forest, the sky was rippled and creased with clouds. The sun
was sinking like a dying warrior into his grave.
My wrists were fastened above my head and attached to a cord
that had been slung over the bough of an oak. I was naked.
Whenever I moved, or twisted in my bonds, I could feel the creak
and lurch of ancient timber passing through my limbs and into
the ground. Hear, too, the rustle of foliage, the sudden fluster of
wings, the murmuring of female voices. The sun now beamed
directly upon me, dousing me in light, drowning me in warmth. A
sun as intense and luminous as God. Unwatchable. Yet its
warmth consoled and soothed me. Sunlight caressed me.
Kissed me. Ran in molten streams down my body, drowning me
in forgetfulness.
Garius was next to me, bound to the same branch, his back to
the lake. He was watching the darkness unfold in the east, an
invisible beast prowling towards us, the lean silent panther of
death and dissolution. The moon was his god. Yet the sun
blessed him too, bathing his back in a liquid pageant of shadow
and gold.
We had set out early that morning from camp. We were on
horseback. We rode slowly through the tents and smouldering
fires; watched yawning men in the bleak light of dawn stumbling
around with unshaven faces. We trotted past the stands of
swords and shields and spears, past the paddock with its
steaming troop of horses, the waggons that rattled with pots and
pans and shook to the snores of cooks. We cantered off down
the forest trail, past the outlying sentries who stared at us with
unfeeling eyes. And then the forest drowned us in silence and
gloom, as though a viscous green river had risen slowly and
imperceptibly around us and submerged us.
Silence? Not quite silence. For the gloom itself was a
murmuring darkness, smothering us in a shroud of prophecy
and promise. For this was a dangerous world, full of
meandering trails that led back upon themselves, through thicket
and mire, into a complex puzzle of swamp and lake in which
were buried the skulls and bones of dead soldiers and lost
adventurers. It was a wilderness of trees that stretched for
uncountable miles to horizons warped by haze and marked only
by the mean, discouraging fires of hostile tribes. Beyond, lay the
mountains from which cold, untameable streams bounced
through gorge and defile, down towards the plain, swelling into
dark, sullen rivers that lazed like dangerous serpents through a
trackless waste of trees. It was a landscape of bleak, forbidding
madness.
And this - from the forest to the mountains - was the land of the
Harga. A warrior tribe - subtle, devious - who skulked among
rock and tree and shadow, beguiling adventurers with the
prospect of easy trails leading to lush meadows and villages
ripe with nubile women. They tempted the Roman legions too.
We came looking for plunder. For slaves. For women. We
wanted to trap them all in the vast net of Empire. But they were
quick, elusive and crafty. They sniped at us from their armour of
darkness, from the shifting shadows of the forest gloom, picking
off scouts, picking off stragglers, beckoning us deeper into
destruction. They laid false trails, trapped the waggons in quag
and morass, then lured the weary remnants of these bold
expeditions into tranquil meadows, with tempting ponds and
crystal streams. The soldiers relaxed. Stripped naked and
bathed, easing their aches and pains, until, from the very trough
of silence, the forest erupted in the dreadful ululation of death,
and shadows teemed forth in a clamour of painted bodies and
shining blades.
Most of the Romans died in the meadows, some fled through
the turmoil of fighting into the forest, and were hunted down and
killed by rearguard skirmishers. A few were taken alive - the
cooks, for example, their fat buttocks squirming under pots and
pans, shivering and shitting themselves with fear, reciting
prayers like menus. These, of course, were too cowardly, too
ugly, to kill. And the Harga had no need of sophisticated Latin
cuisine. So they - with others deemed too mean, too old, too ugly
for sex and sacrifice - were turned out, jeeringly, into the forest
where they would wander around lost, succumbing eventually to
bog and beast and starvation. The others - the young and the
beautiful - had different fates awaiting them. Tests of manhood;
of sexuality; of endurance. In the end, of course, all would die -
some sacrificed to the forest gods, some killed in one-to-one
combat, others tortured and executed for the entertainment of the
tribe. The studs merely expended more sperm in arriving at
death than others - the lucky ones in the wombs of selected
Harga women, the rest futilely into air and soil.
The men were warriors; the women too. Trained in all aspects
of guerrila war, of hand-to-hand fighting. They were redoubtable
fighters, all the more so for their fearlessness in face of death.
They fought without armour; they fought without shields. They
wore but the lightest clothing, always exposing the navel, their
talisman of courage and sexuality, the sign that the warrior was
ever-ready for copulation and death. Sometimes, indeed, a
fighter, dedicating his soul to the forest gods and offering up his
or her life in battle, would fight nude, knowing the naked,
unadorned flesh would draw the spears and arrows of the
clamouring enemy, and satisfy the lust of the gods for a beautiful
death.
Sometimes they wore body-paint - adorning maybe just the face,
perhaps decorating an arm or leg or breast, even occasionally
covering the entire body from head to toe. Body painting was
their highest artistic expression. They painted on neither wood
nor canvas, preferring the flesh, which they adorned with mythic
tales of heroism, scenic views of lake and forest and distant
mountain, of moonrise and sunset, portraits of bird and flower
too. The women especially loved painting themselves - not to
terrify their enemies, but to charm them into death.
And sometimes, too, to taunt their adversaries, they painted their
bodies - male and female - with scenes of copulation and
scenes of death. Arrows protruding from belly and breast;
sinuous streams of blood trickling down throat and waist, thigh
and abdomen; sombre insights into disembowellment, with
intestines sliding from gaping bellies.
Later that morning we came across a shallow stream bubbling
through a defile in the rocks. There was a clearing to one side, a
small glade with rich green grass, fresh and supple as a
woman's flesh, and tiny forest flowers that gleamed in the
sunlight like precious stones. The river tumbled through rocks,
then broadened out and washed against the green banks and
formed several finger-like shoals of sand. Garius said he had no
fear of Harga. We should tether our horses, he said, and swim.
"In that shallow water?" I laughed.
"Well, paddle then!"
And so he jumped from his horse and tied it to a tree.
"Come on!" he yelled.
I looked around anxiously at the trees fringing the clearing. In that
turmoil of water it would have been impossible to hear the tread
of feet, the rustle of leaves, the sound of weapons testing the air.
Garius, anyway, had already stripped off his clothes. He turned to
me, laughing, jeering at my timidity. His prick was hard and
defiant. Arrogant. Challenging. My throat tightened. Went dry.
There was a curious sense of weakness in my bowels.
We splashed together in the water. Behaving like small boys.
Then we relaxed, sitting in a pool, our thighs covered with water.
Garius talked about sex. He eyed me mockingly and toyed with
his genitals. He told me about the women he'd had. Willing and
unwilling. He told me of the young men he'd deflowered. He
laughed a lot at that. He caressed himself obsessively and his
eyes became dreamy. He asked about me. About girls. About
boys. I felt nervous. Shy. I gazed out over the forest. I couldn't look
at him. But I told him how I had made love for the first time the
night before the regiment left on its expedition. In the town on the
fringe of the forest. With its baths and olive groves. He laughed
again. He wanted to know all the details, he said. Was it one or
more? Did her nipples harden at my touch? Was her cunt warm
and cosy? Did she shiver and tremble when she came? I
blushed and wouldn't answer. He laughed mockingly and asked
if I'd been taken by any of the older men in the regiment. I averted
my eyes. Embarassed. Not knowing what to say. Frightened of
where his questions were leading. I couldn't bring myself to
answer.
"Don't worry about it," he said, kicking my foot playfully under the
water. "There's plenty of time."
And I felt his toes rubbing against my calf like some curious fish.
My heart beat more rapidly, my pulse quickened, my belly
quivered in fear and expectation.
But I didn't move away.
Then he seized my hand and jerked me up, pulled me into the
shadows. Kicked water over me. We were no longer nervous
animals, brooding on sex, but small boys again. Misbehaving. I
retaliated and sprayed him with water. He assumed an air of
mock rage, and roared and swore. He'd cut my prick off, he said,
and wear it round his neck as a good-luck charm. He lurched
towards me. I laughed, and said, "You'll have to catch me!", then
turned and ran across the the shoals of sand, leaping up onto
the bank and running across the green grass, with him
pounding in pursuit after me.
Then suddenly he grabbed my wrist. I stumbled. He tugged me
back to him. I gave a sudden playful cry as his arm slid round my
waist and his nails bit into my bellyflesh. He pulled me down.
Onto the grass. Onto the throbbing earth. He grappled me onto
my back. Pinioned my arms. Forced my legs apart. He gazed
down into my face, panting. His eyes were bright with victory. I
glanced downwards, past my heaving chest, my skin glistening
with water and sweat, and saw his prick - a great, bloated
monster, glaring at me through its one lascivious slit of an eye. It
dangled over my belly, threatening me like a scimitar. It glided
over the soft, pale flesh, coaxing my own sex into hard,
uncompromising life.
"I guess you're lucky it's just me," said Garius, smirking in
triumph, "and not some horny stud of a Harga male. Now he'd
really make you wince!"
And he worked his way slowly up my body, his prick slithering
like a serpent over my belly, pausing hungrily at my navel, then
worming up my chest and nudging my throat. He hunched over
me, his cock probing my lips. I felt weak and helpless, shrinking
before his superior strength. I tried squirming away, yet was
mesmerised by that robust beast, with its purple head and
throbbing veins.
"Suck, little cunt, suck...." he purred, in a pastiche of tenderness.
"Suck at the fountain of life....."
And I closed my eyes, and though my body trembled with fear,
and quivered with revulsion, yet I felt myself drawn to obey. My
lips parted. He laughed, and wedged his cock between them,
forcing them further apart.
"No biting now," he whispered. "Cos that'll make it a whole lot
harder. For both of us."
And again I obeyed, opening my mouth, permitting the long,
empurpled shaft to force its way in. I felt faint. Dizzy. I swooned.
My mind seemed to separate from my body; I lost contact with my
limbs. My flesh seemed to melt into grass and soil. Involuntarily I
began to suck, accepting his mastery over me. My tongue curled
and quivered round the head like a devotee surrendering to his
god. It ebbed and flowed in rhythm with his movements, as
though we were both obeying some innner tide.Suddenly the
pulse of his cock began to quicken. As if he were some beast of
prey, stalking my dreams, I could hear him gasp, hear him
groan, his breath now rasping in my ear. There was a brief
animal shriek, which seemed to tear into my own inner darkness
like a blinding flash of light. I tried to respond. To match his cry
with my own. But his cock was now burrowing down my throat
like a serpent. Smothering all sound. Choking me. Suffocating
me. Desperately I squirmed, my legs wriggling and kicking
beneath him. I strained my arms, trying to flail upwards, frantic
for air, but his hands held my wrists in a vice of iron, the nails
digging excruciatingly into my flesh. His firm balls rubbed
against my chin. I bucked. Heaved. Felt my prick jerk and slap
against my abdomen. Dilate. Throb. Swooning into
unconsciousness, I felt the thick juice of my spunk pulsing
through the shaft.
Then suddenly I was free. It was as though some demonic force
had hurled Garius backwards. HIs prick jerked out of my mouth,
dripping with saliva and cum. I gasped for air. My chest panting,
heaving. The ecstasy of dying over, my prick jerked in spasms,
spilling my milk onto my belly.
My eyes flickered open. The sky swirled above me. A whirlpool of
blue. Of flickering light. Birdsong breaking in upon me. I could
hear the babbling of the stream. Could feel the dreamy caress of
sunlight on my body. Then shadows thickening around me. The
world swimming into focus as I gasped for air.
Garius lay on his back, propped on his elbows, panting with the
exhaustion of sex, trembling with fear and bewilderment and
rage. His prick was still hard, quivering with foam , yet
unappeased. Five Harga women had crept upon us. Two were
unpainted, one had the image of a butterfly on her arm, another
an oriole upon her breast, a third a sunflower breaching from her
bush, the petals blooming round her navel. They had stumbled
upon us by chance, dressed in loincloth, or thong, or short
cotton shift that barely covered the thigh. They wore beads and
rings, bracelets and armlets, gold anklets and leather footwear
studded with beads. They stalked around us, jabbing at our
naked bodies with spears and swords. Sneering. Smirking.
Laughing.
"Cocksuckers!" they jeered, in a mixture of Harga and Latin.
"Thought we can't see you, hey? Thought you oh-so-private
here? What you girlfriends say? Maybe send balls back to Rome
in little packet. Say how we found you, huh?"
They were not going to kill us there. They were going to kill us
later. At their leisure. They let us put on our sandals, but that was
all. We abandoned our clothes. They tightened leather thongs
with ornamental bells around our genitals and led us through
the forest on their horses, tugging at the cords from time to time,
teasing little rhythms from the bells and singing saucy songs in
their own language. They laughed as we sweated and squealed
with fear and pain.
They made camp at the lake. We were tied, one after the other, to
the bough of the tree, our wrists above our head, and they
interrogated us in turn. I was the first. Because judged the
weaker. Garius was kept in seclusion some distance away.
Dela was the leader. The eldest. The cruellest. With short
cropped blonde hair and hard blue eyes and sharp, menacing
features that would never soften in love or pity or the sight of
pain. She wore only a beige leather thong that barely concealed
her sex. she stood in front of me, staring haughtily into my eyes,
wilting me with her power, her shoulders thrown back in a
gesture of pride. She stroked her groin provocatively, swaying
her hips, occasionally glancing from side to side as if distracted
by other things, so that her breasts trembled and wobbled. The
nipples were hard and pointed. She drew nearer to me and ran
her fingers down my cheek, my chest, squeezed the index into
my button, then rippled downwards over my abdomen, caressing
my cock. It was erect, engorged, throbbing forlornly in front of her,
the head bobbing, as if in slavish devotion, towards her belly
button. She pressed closer, so that the head rubbed against her
belly, dipping into the pit. I felt the sweet breath of desire on her
lips as she swayed closer to me.
Then she punched me in the belly.
I shrieked; she laughed.
"Where your camp then? Where it?"
"I don't know!" I gasped.
She raised her hands and wrenched at my pectorals. Kneaded
my nipples. Squeezed and tugged them. I stiffened and sobbed.
Shrank backwards. Twisted this way and that. Always held fast
by the thongs round my wrists.
"How much soldiers? How many cavalry? Got gold too? Silver?
Handsome boys? Or only ugly cooks what serve up porridge?
Porridge! Porridge!! Porridge!!!"
And with each repetition of the word she pummelled my belly.
The others were clamouring round now, having left Garius
trussed up to another tree. One of the girls handed Dela a whip.
She lashed my chest, my abdomen, my prick. Never hard
enough to draw blood; always severe enough to redden the skin
and elicit shrieks of terror and pain. And while she lashed me,
another girl squirmed one finger, then two into my anus. Slowly
worming her fist inside me.
"I bet you boy-friend do this you all the time!" said the girl. "You
like?"
Yes, despite the pain and the humilation, there was also that
terrible pleasure. And maybe I would have even resisted until I'd
fallen into unconsciousness. But then they fitted a leather
harness around my balls, and hooked a cord over the branch,
and with each question they tugged a little harder, jerking my
testicles upwards.
This was the hoist.
And it would have torn me apart.
I screamed. My heart was racing wildly, my body lurching, my
legs and arms twisting and writhing. I begged for mercy. I told
them all they wanted to know. Over and over again. I told
everything. I told them the truth. Why wouldn't they believe me? I
would have betrayed friends, country, lover, for just one moment
of relief.
Yet through all this torment, my erection never once abandoned
me.
Then they untied me. Dragged me off, sobbing, crying, cowering
in fear. Two girls tied me to another tree. Then they left me, one
kissing my lips, another giving oh-so-brief solace as she licked
my cock.
For now it was Garius' turn.
Across the clearing, above my own self-pitying sobs, I could hear
the lash of the whip. The punches. The laughter. His shrieks and
cries echoed through the woods. I could hear the girls cooing
over his massive erection.
At first he screamed but said nothing. Then he lied. Then he lied
again.
I know, because they dragged me back, repeating the
interrogation, occasionally finding new innovations. They also
had their little jokes. One thrust a candle up my anus, and lit the
wick, and while I whimpered with humiliation, so she jested:
"Must find way to tell his girl-friend. Oh, yeah! Oh, yeah! Light
really do shine out of boy-friend's ass!"
Eventually Garius broke down and told the truth, confirming
everything I'd already admitted. Or maybe my answers were just
too consistent to be anything but the truth.They had used the
hoist on him too. Jerking the balls gradually upwards, till, racked
with pain, he was teetering on his toes, babbling incoherently.
And maybe, in the end, they simply got bored. Torture can pall,
after all.
So Garius and I were bound to the same branch of the same
tree, our balls raw and aching. The girls had given us water.
Given us kisses. Oiled chest and belly. Caressed our sex.
Occasionally slapping our buttocks. Then they disappeared.
Went, giggling, into a huddle behind a bush, periodically peering
out at us to see how we were coping.
Eventually they re-emerged, nude, their faces gloriously painted.
A thin shiver of fear trickled through my bowels. I felt a strange
caged excitement at such bewildering beauty.
Dela sauntered up to us, swaying her hips. Her skin still
gleamed with the exertions of torture, was bright with sexual
excitement. Her face was a portrait of the night sky, viewed from
some alien landscape with jagged mountains and arid plains
and a distant lifeless horizon. There was a multitude of stars. In
constellations. The virgin and the Hunter. And there, spreading
over one cheek, a beautiful globe of swirling green and blue and
white, suspended in the sky like a jewel. A vision of Paradise.
And that rugged, airless vista that broke around her chin and lips
and nose was the cold, dark hell of our souls.
And my pulse quickened with fear. There was death in her face. I
was frightened. Terrified of her power. Of the cruelties that raged
in her blood. And yet I wanted her too. Desired her. Like I wanted
and desired the strange, elusive world that hung there among
the stars, sapphire and emerald, smoking with clouds. My legs
trembled in fear and my cock rose in a gesture of worship.
"We give you boys one chance," she said, her lips curving in a
taunting smile. "Maybe let you go. If you good enough. If you stud
enough. You fight girl. Girl armed with knife. You fight with
nothing but cock. Cock very dangerous weapon. If girl better
fighter, you get killed; or you get castrated. Castrated mean you
sing in choir, but get no future out of it. But then maybe you get
better of girl. Then can fuck. Maybe got future. If beat all five girl
and fuck all five....wow! you some stud! Have to let you go. Can't
kill prize beef-male. But only got time between candle mark to get
prick ready." She pointed at the candle that had only recently
been protruding from my anus and was now wedged into he
earth a short distance away. "If prick go limp, then no fight - just
kill you anyway. One little rule. No big deal. Have to fight girl in
special order. Strongest male start with weakest girl; work
upwards. Weakest male start with strongest female; work
downwards. Good idea, huh? So have vote. Four girl say you
strongest. " She flicked Garius' cock and watched appreciatively
as it joggled in the air. She turned to me and jabbed me in the
belly-button with her forefinger. "One say you." She snorted with
laughter. She pointed at the girl who had been dressed in a
loin-cloth. The youngest. A quiet girl with round innocent eyes
who had taken little or no part in our degradation and torture.
"That Tarna...Wah! she so sentimental. Must want you bad. But
she young. Maybe she learn."
I glanced at Tarna, her jet-black hair hanging sultrily over her
bare shoulders, and saw something like pity, something like
love, in the moistness of her eyes.
Dela reached up and slashed through the bonds that bound
Garius.
"You first," she said. "You fight Tarna."
But Tarna shrank away, afraid of the muscular male, of the
arrogant bloated prick. She glanced once at me, her eyes
flickering like black pearls. Her face was the sunset. A promise
of what was now. Of a sky melting into liquid gold and drowning
in the lake. There were trees and reeds and birds winging to
their solitary roosts. I could see as well the two tiny figures that
were Garius and myself, bound to the oak, against a sombre
forest, the sunset reflected like blood on our naked bodies.
Dela handed Tarna the knife. She took it reluctantly, feeling the
ebony handle, running her finger suspiciously along the blade. It
was eight inches long, with a silver surface that sparkled in the
light, and an edge that curved into a single, terrifying point. Her
breasts were heaving with fear, her legs were trembling. She
whimpered, curbing the panic that melted her bowels.
Garius prowled round her. He was proud of his maleness.
Proud of the firm, glistening pecs; the muscles that flexed and
crinkled beneath the skin; the shining rugged abdominals. But
most of all he rejoiced in the engorged cock that swung towards
Tarna like a serpent. The serpent of death and retribution.
The girls egged Tarna on, cajoling her, teasing her, then
humiliating her with harsh cries. She was frightened of men. Of
the tough Roman soldiers with their arrogant, boastful ways,
their insatiable appetite for sex. Now she would learn to loathe
them. She had to feel the Roman cock inside her belly. Had to be
violated to become a warrior. Only sex and battle would harden
her.
Then Garius lunged. He had no fear of this frail girl, with the
tempting body and the dreamy look of sunset in her eyes. Tarna
squealed with shock and fear. Shrank backwards. Stumbling.
The knife slipped from her grasp. The girls groaned in some
kind of mutual despair. Tarna, they knew, would never make a
warrior. In battle she would be lost. The helpless victim.
Mesmerized by the enemy's flashing sword, the source of all his
masculine power. Unable to fight, unable to flee. Surrendering
her weapon to the palsy of fear. She would stand in the open,
naked and alone, eyes moist with tears, legs shaking, wanting
so desperately to be a hero, preferring , deep in her soul, to die
rather than kill. Shaking with the shame of cowardice. Trembling
with terror. Cowering in the field of battle, intimidated by the
clamour of the enemy - their cries, the thumping of their swords
upon shields. Emancipated finally from fear by the lance of death
shivering into her guts.
"No touch knife, Roman dogling! Only weapon you got is damn
big serpent sprouting from your thighs! If touch knife, fill you so
many arrows, hedgehog come make love to you!"
But Garius didn't need a knife. Not against Tarna. Maybe against
Dela he would have to learn to cheat. But not here. Not against
this timid girl with the wide, innocent, obsidian eyes.
Then he was upon her. She wrestled desperately against his
superior strength, wriggled as he pressed her into the ground.
Screamed and spat when he laughed in her face. He hunched
her thighs upwards, pressing his prick into her bush. Again, she
writhed, sensing defeat. Flailed at his back, scratched his
shoulders with her vermilion nails. The girls were silent.
Watching. Garius snarled with triumph, relishing his victory. He
thrust firmly and hard. A series of jabs increasing in momentum,
his body rearing up and over her like a cobra, his head flung
back, hers too, the neck arching, the face in a web of jet-black
hair and rich green grass. The sun licked his back, caressed his
legs, as he held her in the thrall of his shadow. From the tangle
of light and shade and contorted limbs, there arose a shrill
keening as Tarna surrendered to his ruthless onslaught.
The girls watched morosely. They didn't say anything. It was,
anyway, no more than they expected. They forced Garius to his
feet. He was smirking with triumph.
"Who's next?" he laughed.
Dela lashed him on the buttocks with her whip. Hit bit his lips,
suppressing his cry, keeping the pain and the humiliation inside.
Then they trussed him to the trunk of the oak. Slapped his prick.
Punched his belly. Pinched his nipples. Then Dela grabbed his
hair, pulled his head backwards, and bit his throat. This time he
cried out, a shrill, tormented shriek that cut through the air like a
sword. She stepped back, satisfied. A red weal glowed at the
base of Garius' throat.
"More jokes," purred Dela, "and maybe we drink blood, cook
balls and cut off prick and use as backscratch!"
Then she punched him in his belly and jostled his cock - in a
gesture of mocking admiration perhaps. He had his cock, she
laughed, but she had the knife. So who had the power? Then
she glanced at me, extending her tongue and vibrating it
mischievously in the air. She laughed again and soft-footed
towards me, her toenails, black like tiny nuggets of coal,
swishing through the grass. She held the blade menacingly in
her hand. Her eyes once more were mean and threatening. I
glanced at Tarna, on her back, in the dying sunlight. Sobbing.
They wanted blood now. My blood. Victim for victim.
The sun was still warm and comforting on my flesh, baptising
me in its glow. Yet I shook with fear. My legs trembled. I twisted
in my bonds, squealing in despair. The sweat was trickling down
my cheeks, dripping onto my breast, sliding down my belly. I
wanted to piss, but my cock was hard, tingling with terror, and my
bladder was blocked. In the shaking blur of my fear I was barely
conscious of my sphincter opening and the shit squeezing out.
Dela sneered. The other girls recoiled slightly, laughing with
embarrassment and pleasure and disgust.
"Some soldier, you!" mocked Dela. "Shit yourself in front of death.
Maybe you should stay in Rome and do tapestry of battle-scene
with other women!"
I was sobbing with shame.
One of the girls ran to the lakeside and soaked a cloth and
came back. Giggling, she cleansed my anus. Pushing the cloth
inside me. Lingering over the ablutions. The others laughing.
Dela sliced through the bonds. I felt faint. My knees gave way.
Dela pulled me forward. And held me. Her breasts pressed soft
and voluptuous against my chest. I closed my eyes, swooning, in
the twin tides of dream and nightmare.
"Can't have you go faint-fall into shit," said Dela, whispering into
my ear. "Spend all night cleaning, polishing. No time fun."
End of Part One
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