Don Winslow: Slave Girls Of Rome

And so, with time on my hands, I set out to explore the pleasures of Bernesium, and these-for an officer of the legion, at least-were to be found in only one place: the house of Gratius. It goes without saying that wherever there are soldiers there will be women and wine; some enterprising entrepreneur will always see to that As you might expect, there were several taverns in our town clustered around the fort, and even a surprisingly large inn; but the pleasures of the flesh were provided almost exclusively by one man: Asinus Gratius.

Gratius was a former politician. Sensing a shift in the political winds, he had departed from Rome hastily and stealthily under rather questionable circumstances. He managed to take with him a considerable fortune, which he used to ease the discomforts of his self-imposed exile by opening a high-class house of pleasure at his villa by the lake at Bernesium. Business flourished and the old rogue prospered. I found that Gratius also held the contract with the army to run the women’s house next to the barracks. Supplying whores to the army was a lucrative business, and apparently my predecessor had allowed him to set the terms for a generous contract Along with the written agreement, Sergeant Metellus assured me with a sly wink, was an understanding whereby a bit extra might come the way of the garrison commander, “for services rendered”-another arrangement that seemed eminently sensible.

Naturally, the common whores who service the troops are seldom visited by the officers, even in remote outposts like ours. Instead, I was invited to avail myself of the tasty treats placed at my disposal at the luxurious villa of the wealthy procurer.

A word about Gratius’s pride and joy seems in order.

He chose to build his pleasure palace on the picturesque lake, re-creating a splendid Roman villa in this remote province. Except for the fort, it was the largest compound in Bernesium. A sprawling low building with extended wings enclosed beautifully manicured grounds surrounding lively fountains and flowing water gardens. A wide spacious porch, set with tall columns in typical Roman style, welcomed the visitor. Inside, the house was furnished exquisitely with treasures spirited away on the hasty flight from Rome, along with expensive tapestries and Oriental rugs that had found their way along the trade routes to our little outpost. In addition to his private rooms, one wing held the women’s quarters, where Gratius kept some of finest sex slaves in the province-beautiful, talented young women who were exceptionally well trained.

Gratius’s girls were made available to local merchants, visiting traders, and notables like the provincial governor, as well as a few of the town’s more important personages, among whom I, as garrison commander, was afforded a very special place. Indeed Gratius saw to it that when visiting his house, I would be entertained like a king, although only my initial visit was free. I remember that visit fondly, the first time I walked along the shady tree-lined paths that meandered down to that idyllic garden of heavenly delights.

I was met at the door by a pretty little slave girl whose big brown eyes smiled up at me from under her bangs. I couldn’t help smiling back as my eyes took in her slight girlish shape, the gentle slope of her narrow shoulders and, through a translucent bodice of ivory silk, the shallow curves of her little breasts-a pair of tautly rounded globes, tipped with surprisingly pert nipples. Brashly uptilted, the little nubbins poked back impertinently against the thin fabric, simply begging to be touched.

As befits a proper sex slave, the young woman who greeted me was clad in nothing but a thin Grecian tunic. Made of white diaphanous silk, this short sleeveless garment bared her supple limbs, exposing a generous expanse of smooth girlish chest. The thin bodice covered-but did not hide-her maidenly breasts, before it fell in soft folds, to be gathered at the waist by a thin belt, thus forming a brief skirt-one that barely covered her hips and the top of her youthful thighs. Sandals and a high leather collar (that ubiquitous symbol of her servitude) completed her scanty outfit. The inspiring sight of the slave girl’s nubile body as she stood in the doorway, her dusky triangle dimly visible, brought on a familiar surge of lust and an immediate responsive stirring from under my own tunic.

As I stood there gaping at her, this vision of loveliness lowered her eyes, tilted her head respectfully, and asked me politely to follow her. Then she turned on her heel and led the way down the hall, her small, trim behind swaying most delightfully. The little skirt was barely adequate to cover the girl’s nicely rounded bottom. As she walked, the hemline rode rhythmically, threatening to expose more than the undercurves of her cute ass, a hint of which peeked out from below the shifting hem with each step. Would I follow her?! Without a doubt, I would have followed that delectable little morsel to the very gates of Hades itself!

My charming escort led me through the main hall to where my host awaited my arrival in the large circular atrium with its high domed ceiling that formed the center of the house. Gratius was a big, fun-loving bear of a fellow with a roaring laugh and a lusty appetite. He thoroughly enjoyed playing the role of the province’s wealthiest citizen. A lifelong bachelor, he was like a jovial uncle to his bevy of slave girls, one or two of whom seemed always to be draped about his person.

I came upon him seated like an enthroned monarch on a low-backed camp chair, wearing nothing but a towel draped over his loins, thighs spread wide, and sandaled feet planted firmly on the tiled floor. Behind him, a comely lass stood with both hands on his big shoulders, kneading his soft naked flesh slowly, while on the rug at his feet a second slave girl sat with knees drawn up, her head resting against her master’s hairy thigh. One of his hands had dropped down along the side of the chair and his thick fingers were idly playing in the silken mass of the lissome girl’s rich auburn hair. He greeted me with a friendly wave and beckoned me over to recline on a nearby sofa. Magically, a slave girl appeared at my elbow, instantly ready with a generous cup and a flagon of fine Latium wine.

“So, Marcus,” he began expansively, “how do you find our little corner of the empire? Dull, no doubt, after the fun of Rome?”

As the slave girl bent over to pour the wine, she offered me a splendid view of her taut, conical breasts, hanging within the billowing neckline of her tunic. I tried to respond to my magnanimous host as best as I could. Although somewhat distracted, I heard myself assuring him that the present company, at least, was the equal of any to be found in Rome. He beamed in appreciation of the compliment It was true, he admitted with a thoughtful nod, that in some ways we had been able to retain “a bit of old Rome” here in the hinterlands. He paused, and then brightened up. For example, there were the games!

“When was the last time you saw a couple of famous gladiators going at it?” He grinned with amusement.

I’ll admit I was a bit bewildered, but I couldn’t help smiling at his obvious enthusiasm. It had been a while, I allowed, remembering those disastrous games where I had lost a more than a few denarii betting on the blue team. But there were no games in Bernesium. Surely, my host didn’t maintain a stable of gladiators! Now I discovered he had a different contest in mind. For, after a teasing pause, he enlightened me, grinning broadly. He had arranged to have a special entertainment staged in my honor. As a man who appreciated the ladies, he leered, he felt sure I would enjoy his very special “gladiators.”

Now the master of the house clapped his hands and shouted triumphantly: