Don Winslow: Slave Girls Of Rome

Switching tactics, she flattened her tongue and laved with broad wet strokes, lapping up the length, swirling around the ridge of the crown, then slithering down to the base. Then she nibbled at the root of the shaft, soaking my pubic hair. Her velvety tongue slid wetly, lavishly, all over my scrotum till she reached the perineum and, once there, she buried her face between my thighs, thrilling me as she pressed nose and lips to my crotch.

I couldn’t stand much more of this maddening pleasure. My hands reached out for the girl’s burrowing head. When she came up for air, she went back to my shaft immediately, holding it in both hands, licking greedily, lapping generously all along its length till my upstanding cock was glistening with the sheen of her saliva.

Curving my hands to cradle her head, I ran my fingers through her thick hair, luxuriating in the silky tresses. I gripped her head while I rubbed my cock all over her face. Then I let her eager lips nibble on me, guiding her up and down my straining manhood, letting her lick her way almost to the top, but keeping her from reaching the sensitive underside just below the crown.

I heard my own whimpers from a distance as delicious waves of pure pleasure welled up in me, drowning out all else, as the slave girl continued her obsequious devotion, methodically covering every inch, working me over with avid lips and agile tongue, until she had me squirming helplessly, uncontrollably, driven to distraction by the exquisite feel of her unrelenting tongue. The feel of her lavish tongue sliding wetly up and down my shaft was so exquisite that I couldn’t help moaning, tossing my head back and lifting my loins toward her till I was arching my back as though offering her even more, wanting her to take my lust-swollen sex even more deeply into her hot little mouth. I arched my back; my eyes fluttered closed, a groan escaped my tightly pressed lips as I surrendered to the delicious waves of pleasure this sensual female was generating in my groin.

Then the tickling play of her lively tongue stopped When I looked down at her through half-lidded eyes, she grabbed me and tilted my rigid shaft toward her as she bent down slowly to take my cock in her receptive mouth. Inch by inch, that marvelous girl took me in, sliding the taut ring of her lips down the swollen shaft, ducking her head to go down on me. Through lust-narrowed eyes, I watched the top of her small head as it bobbed up and down in smooth, easy rhythm.

My darling little fellatrix was sucking me off with surprising skill Her cheeks hollowed as she vacuumed me with ruthless determination. I groaned, clamping my hands on her thin, naked shoulders and held on, tightening my grip, clenching my teeth as the most excruciating waves of pleasure rocketed through me. Then the clever slave girl added a new thrill. She never stopped her energetic sucking, but now she began to bring her tongue up, swirling it around in an upward spiral each time she came up. The novel sensation drove me instantly to new heights of pleasure-almost painful, unbearable, straining my endurance to its absolute limits as I held on, arching my rigid hips high into the air, clinging, with gritted teeth, to the last shreds of control.

But the powerful upsurge in my loins became irresistible under the sheer intensity of the repeated thrills, thrills which escalated wildly, till they sent me careering toward the supreme moment of climax I could hold out no longer. My last conscious act was to push the eager girl back, extracting my throbbing penis, and aiming it right at her face. At that exact moment, I exploded in a tremendous climax, sending a powerful surge of sperm erupting from the pulsating shaft to decorate her pretty face. Then I was coming with furious urgency, spurting thick wads of semen that jetted out to splatter another man’s slave girl, painting her neat features with ropy strands of creamy sperm in pulsating explosions that seemed to go on forever.

Even before Lucius had given word to my feelings, I had learned that for a poor but ambitious junior officer, the Legion’s permanent barracks, just outside Rome, could not be considered the most hospitable of postings. And if that officer gambled a bit too much, and was heavily in debt, his plight was even worse. I was restless, increasingly desperate, hating my poverty, and thoroughly bored with camp life. A few days earlier, when I had been ruminating about my fate, 1 happened upon a slave caravan. Such long lines of fresh captives were quite common in Rome in those days. Day or night one could find them bound for the slave markets, wending their ways through the streets of that decadent city, a city insatiable for ever more human flesh.

I watched as two long rows of dusty naked captives, mostly men, trudged past me, their eyes downcast, their tread slow and dull. From their long unkempt hair, powerful builds, and scarred, hard-muscled bodies, it was easy to see that these must have been barbarian fighters, once-proud warriors whose spirit had been broken by defeat at the hands of Rome’s invincible legions. Now they were being led by overseers, who found no need to use their whips on their dazed and beaten captives. The shuffling men moved their feet mindlessly, hands manacled before them, chained to one another in loose coffles of eight men each.

There were lines of captured women, too. And although these were fewer, I studied them with more interest Many were stocky, heavily built barbarians, clearly destined to end up as field slaves or, at best, house slaves, although occasionally there was a well-made body that might elevate its fortunate owner to work in the bedchamber or in one of the city’s pleasure houses. The long lines of would-be slaves were broken by the occasional slaver’s wagon, with the large wheels and wide flatbeds, that held standing captives in cages. The wagons were reserved for captured nobles or for those women who were fated to become specially trained sex slaves. It was unwise to wear out the more-valuable merchandise in the long, exhausting march to Rome.

I watched the sorry parade without much interest as it made its way slowly by, when a creaking wagon came into view and with it a particularly rare prize. The jogging cage held a statuesque blonde. This must be a captive from the Northern peoples, I realized, a rare Teuton to be sure, as I recognized the striking Nordic features that Gaius had once described to me in such loving detail. This Germanic beauty was impressively tall, regal in her bearing, and elegantly made. She stood with cold blue eyes looking out over the crowd, eyes that were remote and unblinking. Most favored captives who found themselves so displayed in the tall wooden cages would shrink back to huddle in a far corner averting their eyes, or they might squat down studying the planks on the floor with head held low in the utter shame of defeat. But this woman did no such thing!

She stood boldly, squarely facing her Roman enemies, strong legs set wide as though to compensate for the roll of the wagon. Her hands clasped the bars at either side of her pale face, as she stood regarding with icy contempt those who sought to subdue her. Enthralled, I studied her magnificent naked body, the lean hard muscles sculpted into long, feminine contours, the breasts, firm, high set, and fiercely proud with prominent pink nipples that seemed to jut straight out My eyes fell to the silvery fleece of her brazenly exposed womanhood, a triangle of soft pale curls that thickened at the apex into a blonde tuft only half-hiding pouting netherlips. Her fuzzy pubic hair was paler than the hair on her head, which was long and thick, and spoke to former glories, although now it was matted and unkempt so it gave her a slightly frazzled, wild look I wondered if her new owner would have sense enough to allow her to keep that long mane of pure gold, or would he insist she be shorn to the sort of blonde stubble some slave owners thought quite fashionable in those days.