Mastertank1
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The Patrician And The Shield Maiden
A Hysterical Historical by Mastertank1
The character of Fidija is based on a TMF lady who shall not be named, by her own choice.
The character of Marcus Junius Lepidus is based on the personal fantasy of the lady who is the basis for Fidija.
This story was sold to Tickler’s Paradise, on an agreement for 1 year’s exclusivity, just over one year ago. I am now free to publish it here for the first time.
Even Marcus Junius Lepidus himself was dizzied by the speed with which he had risen through the ranks of the XIIth Legion Fulmina. Less than two years ago, he had followed the advice of his father Aurelius, head of the wealthy and powerful family of the Junii Lepidi, by entering the legion as a common legionary.
He could have taken advantage of his family connection to begin as an officer, but his father had told him that too many young patricians of Rome’s ruling class did exactly that. Most of them turned out to have no idea what the Pluto they were doing. If they were unlucky enough to have their unit dropped in the stewpot of a desperate combat before they had a chance to gain experience, that could cost the lives of good legionaries who deserved better of their appointed leaders.
Marcus had chosen to enter the XIIth because that legion had received its honorific nickname, Fulmina or Lightning, by setting many records for marching speed. Either on the magnificent Roman roads or across country, the XIIth Fulmina moved faster than any other legion. It seemed a natural fit for the winner of the Marathon race at the most recent quadrennial games held at Mount Olympus.
In his first fight as a legionary, Marcus’s squad leader had been killed. Seemingly by instinct, Marcus had seen what needed to be done and snapped out orders. The rest of the squad had responded to the confident tone of Marcus' voice by obeying instantly. The result was that despite his lack of seniority Marcus had been promoted to Decurion after only two months in the legion.
Three months later, when the Centurion who commanded his century had retired after 30 years of active service, everyone had wondered who the next commander would be. The outgoing centurion told his superiors that Marcus was the best Decurion in the century, and so he was raised to centurion.
Five months after that, after grueling and brutal campaigning, the commander of one of the ten cohorts that made up the legion had been invalided out with a leg so badly broken he would never march on it again. The commander of the legion had conferred with the Primus Pilus or first spear, the senior centurion of the legion, and with the nine remaining cohort commanders. They all agreed that Marcus was the best of the centurions in the XIIth, and promoted him to the military rank of Tribune, commander of a cohort of six centuries. (Not to be confused with the civil rank of Tribune, ten magistrates elected annually by the plebeians of the city of Rome to protect the rights of the people by exercising the power of veto over the acts of the Senate.)
One year later, due to attrition among the tribunes, Marcus stood fourth in seniority and was generally acknowledged to be the most capable of the ten.
The last five months of that year had been devoted to the expedition across the river Rhine. The commander of the army to which the XIIth belonged, Gaius Julius Caesar, had determined that the Teutonic tribes who dwelt there must be punished and awed in order to stop their continual raids.
The expedition had been amazingly successful. The tribes’ attempt to ambush the legions had been thwarted by Caesar’s vigilance and the knowledge of an advisor. The tribes had been utterly crushed, and many villages razed and prisoners taken.
In the fighting, the legate commanding the XIIth had been slain, and Marcus was judged the best of the tribunes. Caesar had promoted Marcus to legate and given him command of the legion. Now they were having a triumph, a ritual celebratory parade of representative cohorts of the legions that had participated and the officers who had commanded, through the streets of Rome. They received the unrestrained adulation of the mob.
At the feast after the parade, someone mentioned that the next quadrennial games at Mount Olympus were coming up. Marcus asked Caesar if he could have leave to train for and participate in the games for the honor of Rome. Caesar remembered that Marcus had won the Marathon four years ago, and indulgently agreed.
Caesar wanted to let his nephew Brutus gain some experience in commanding a legion, and the months of Marcus’ absence would be perfect. That term would let the young man get meaningful experience without committing him to remain with the legion for years as becoming it’s permanent commander would have.
Even though traveling across the Appenine Mountains and the Adriatic Sea was the shortest distance, the absence of roads meant it would actually have taken longer. Instead, he traveled west to Ostia, the seaport serving Rome, and took ship for Corinth in Greece. From there it was a short journey over good roads to Olympia, at the foot of Mount Olympus.
The betting was heavily against Marcus. He did not quite have the long, lean build of a successful runner. Many of the bettors, even those who had seen him run four years ago, felt that due to the changes in his physique he could no longer win a race over such a distance.
Marcus’ chosen event, the Marathon, was more than 26 miles long. It was a real test of endurance. What the bettors and spectators didn’t know, couldn’t know, was the way Marcus had trained.
As an officer in a legion on route march, Marcus could have ridden a horse or driven a chariot. In fact, that was customary. Marcus chose to march on foot right along with his troops, earning their respect. But he didn’t just march.
From the moment the legion hit the road in the morning until they turned aside to make camp for the night, Marcus could be seen trotting up and down the column. Over and over again, he would trot to the head of the column to check on progress, then turn around and trot down the column to the tail to make sure that no one was lagging. Then he would turn round again and repeat the process.
Along the way he would look in every unit, making sure all of his men were alright. He would also swerve wide away from the column to see that the flank, vanguard and rear scouts were alert and in position. They had to be far enough out to give a timely warning if they saw a hostile force approaching, and yet close enough for the main force to receive the warning quickly enough to get ready. And, Marcus did this wearing full armor!
All of this exercise made Marcus noticeably more muscular than the usual long distance runner in the legs, hips and lower torso. In addition, his arms and shoulders had the power to hurl a dozen of the heavy war spears called Pila to a distance of 30 paces, one after another. Then he could spend an entire day fighting with massive shield and sturdy shortsword, just like any legionary veteran.
The betting odds might have changed if the bookies were aware of Marcus’ near superhuman endurance. Or if they knew that the men of his legion had given him the nickname ‘the man of living bronze’ because of his phenomenal endurance and deep tan.
Marcus’ Celtic mother and grandmother, both from the province of Cisalpine Gaul, had given him unusual height for a Roman, just under 6 feet tall(180 centimeters). He weighed a full 178 pounds(81 Kilos), his legs, hips and lower torso looking bigger than those of the average long distance runner, with the solid, bulky arms and chest of a swordsman. His professional swordsmanship also gave him unusually large, exceptionally powerful hands. Hands many women thought beautiful as they imagined him touching them with those hands.
Marcus’ dark brown, very short hair and dark brown eyes set in a masculinely handsome, regular featured face, which he kept shaved like most patricians, completed a picture which cut a swath among women of both the patricians and the plebs. Or it would have, had Marcus not been so dedicated to his profession of arms and his calling of athletic competition.
Marcus knew very well what he could do, and he was confident of victory. He gathered every talent and sesterce he owned, and all he could borrow or beg from friends and relatives. In order to avoid changing the odds by showing too much confidence in himself, he had a trusted friend pretend to be drunk when the friend bet all that money on Marcus to win the Marathon.
For inspiration, Marcus strolled down the center aisle of the long pavilion where the prizes were on display. The organizers of the event gave only a laurel wreath for each winner to wear about his head. The rulers of various cities, the governors of several Roman provinces, and the Senate of Rome each offered prizes to any athlete from their jurisdiction who won an event.
As the winner at the previous Olympiad, there was no question that Marcus would represent Rome in this years’ Marathon run. The prize offered by the Senate to any Roman who won the Marathon was the largest of all, as the Marathon was the oldest and most demanding event in the games.
There the prize sat, under guard of a squad of legionaries in full armor. A chest containing 20 talents weight of pure gold, equal to two years’ income for a very wealthy family, stood proudly open upon it’s pedestal. Atop the profusion of coins within sat an artificial laurel crown, wrought in pure gold by masters of the goldsmith’s craft.
Marcus had also wagered a total of 7 talents at the prevailing odds against him of 9 to 1. Including the Senatorial prize, a victory would leave him with 83 talents, a moderately large fortune. ( A talent equaled about 5000 sesterces. A sesterce then bought about what a 20 dollar bill does today. So figure 1 talent as equal to $100,000.)
Marcus stood contemplating the fruits of victory, when a sound caught his attention. It came from the rear of the pavilion, the area where the slave girls to be offered as prizes were kept.
Each slave girl wore a collar with a large tag at the front, showing the ruler or jurisdiction which offered her as an incentive to its athletes. A winner would have his choice, in order of the traditional importance of his event. As Marcus well knew, the winner of the Marathon would choose first in any jurisdiction.
The sound which had caught his attention was a disagreement of some kind among the slave girls. From what he overheard as he hurried to watch, they were fighting over who was worth more at auction. Marcus was vastly amused as he watched.
One girl was easily dominating the others. She stood 5’3” (160 cm) and weighed about 128 pounds(58 kilos). She had short golden hair, huge, brilliant sapphire blue eyes, and a lovely heart shaped face. Her shape was very tight, with solid muscle concealed under a thin layer of fat. The body shape this combination produced was very enticingly feminine and sexy.
What the fight had started over Marcus neither knew nor cared. What he wanted to know was the name of the blonde beauty who dominated the other slave women with her presence and physical ability.
Marcus barked out a loud command to stop. All of them did, except for the short, powerful blonde who had caught his interest. She couldn’t resist taking one more solid swat at her latest opponent.
Recognizing her as a member of one of the Teutonic tribes he had been fighting on his last expedition, Marcus addressed her in her own language; “Why are you so disobedient, slave?”
She replied; “You have no right to expect my obedience! I am no slave; I am a free Shield Maiden of the Allemanni!”
Marcus reached out and grabbed the tag hanging down from the front of her collar. She tried with both hands to break his grip, but that large, capable, masculine hand was far too strong. He pulled her inexorably over to the nearest wall sconce. By the light of the torch there, he read the words; “Slave Fidija, owner The Senate And People Of Rome.”
“A Shield maiden of the Allemanni, are you? Why did you not die in battle?”
Sullenly; “I was struck on the head by a sling stone that ricocheted from a Roman shield! They captured me while unconscious, and when I awoke I was chained! Then, I heard the chief of my tribe pledge that none of those taken captive by the Romans would escape, in return for your chief’s oath not to destroy the tribe entirely. I am honor bound not to escape, but there is no pledge to obey! And I will not! I am a war captive, not a slave!”
“I have a race to win tomorrow. Then, I shall have first choice of you slave women. In Rome, a war captive IS a slave. Only a noble hostage is not, and you are not one of those. Soon or late, you will learn to submit and obey.”
Other slave women crowded forward, vying for the attention of this devastatingly handsome man who might soon have the choice of any of them. Far better, they felt, to belong to this good looking, clean limbed runner than one of those lumpish, greasy wrestlers, boxers or weight lifters!
They cried out to Marcus to choose them rather than this rebellious bit of baggage from the wilds of Germania. When they began to crowd what Fidija regarded as her personal space, she roughly shoved them back, and the altercation free for all resumed.
Marcus watched in amusement, until one girl, trapped in a painful looking headlock, tickled Fidija’s ribs. Fidija laughed and jumped back, hurling the offender in the other direction violently with a vile curse. That caught Marcus’ attention. He smiled broadly, and walked off to seek his rest, having made a decision.
The following morning, while the air was still cool, the Marathoners lined up for the race. As the winner of the previous Marathon, Marcus had the privilege of the front row right corner starting position. The starter dropped his signal cloth, and they were off.
The slaves of the prize pool were sitting on a hill above the seats for spectators. They avidly watched the runners until they vanished in the distance. Fidija could not help staring at Marcus.
He was the only Roman she had ever seen who was nearly as tall as the men of her own tribe. She grudgingly admitted that his face was not unpleasing to look at either.
The way he did not have the bulgy, ugly musculature of most Romans, but still had more heft and solidity than the lean, rangy runner/scouts of her own tribe was also attractive. She startled herself with the thought that if she must belong to some man, he would be less bad than most, especially because he spoke her language.
Marcus had loped easily out to an early lead. His legs, very long for a Roman, flashed in what looked like an effortless ground-eating stride. When the pack of runners passed out of sight over the crest of a distant hill, Marcus was well ahead of the rest and seemed to be opening his lead still further.
Marcus’ clever race strategy was working. By opening an early and long lead, he made the other front runners nervous. They exerted themselves to catch up, running at a pace that they could not sustain for the entire race.
Once the other seven men of the front row were all ahead of him, he slowly let his pace slacken to a speed he could keep up all day. The fact that the entire second row and half of the third overhauled and passed him was part of the plan. He would simply leave those up front to challenge each other, none of them willing to slacken the unsustainable pace he had set and let the others pull away from them.
Half way through the race, the lead group had opened a gap between them and the main body, but they were no longer gaining on Marcus. Marcus was all alone, halfway between the main body who had fallen behind him, and the lead group who were up ahead.
Three quarters of the way through the race, the distance between Marcus and the main body was rapidly growing, while he had nearly caught up to the leaders. He was still keeping the same speed, but the men ahead of him were slowing due to fatigue. In the many challenges among them that Marcus had instigated, they had run themselves out. The distance between the leaders and the pack was shorter as well.
Marcus moved up into the lead group, making his way past one tired and gasping runner after another. When he was in fifth place, the man in fourth glimpsed Marcus overhauling him and began a panicked sprint, way too far from the finish. That man’s burst of speed carried him into second, which startled the men in second and third into ill considered sprints.
The second and third placers passed the leader, who responded by putting on speed and reclaiming the lead. For a few hundred feet they opened a distance from Marcus, but then they were all blown.
Marcus remained at the same steady rate, and with 300 yards left to go passed them all and regained the lead. The others had nothing left. It was all they could do to keep moving until they crossed the finish line.
Marcus, to show his superiority, put on the sprint he had saved until now. He rapidly increased his lead. When he finished the race, Marcus was all of sixty yards ahead of his nearest competitor. It was one of the most decisive Marathon victories ever recorded.
While most of the other Marathoners collapsed or had to be supported out of the way as soon as they crossed the line, Marcus remained upright. He ‘walked himself down’ the way a groom would a horse who had been run too hard, now and then ‘shaking out’ each leg to promote circulation of the blood.
Spectators who had backed other runners murmured that he must be a demi-god. Possibly the result of a dalliance of Hermes/Mercury’s with a human woman, something all the male Olympian Gods were notorious for. Romans in the crowd spoke rather more loudly of the ‘well known natural superiority of the Patrician race of Rome’. Still unassisted, Marcus walked into the competitor’s pavilion for a rest and refreshment.
Later, when the heat of the summer day had passed, the days’ winners gathered in the cool of gathering dusk for the award ceremony. The prize slaves had long since been placed under shelter from the sun. They were bathed and perfumed, willingly or not, and brought forth to stand to one side of the winner’s podium.
The first, second and third of the marathon were called to the podium before any others. Marcus had already collected his winnings from the bookmakers, accompanied by his retinue of a dozen tough, hard retired legionaries who lived on his family latifundium. Now the stentor of the games announced; “Winner of the Marathon, Marcus Junius Lepidus, eldest scion of the Junii Lepidi, Patrician of Rome and Legate of the XIIth Legion Fulmina!”
“So”, Fidija thought; “He is a warrior as well as an athlete. His legion was one of those that followed Caesar in his punishment of my people for our raids!”
The magister ludi, master of the games, placed the special solid gold replica of a laurel wreath upon Marcus’ brow. The chest of gold coins and the other prizes he had won were displayed for the crowd, then taken into custody by Marcus’ retainers, with thanks to the various patrons who had supplied the prizes.
“Last but not least,” cried the stentor; “Thanks to the munificence of that well known patron of athletics, Lentullus Batiatus of Capua, the famous lanista (A lanista was an owner/ trainer of gladiators. Lentullus Batiatus was later to become far more famous, or rather infamous, as the lanista who had trained the rebel gladiator Spartacus of Thrace, and whose mistreatment of Spartacus’ woman provoked his revolt.) we have a selection of exceptionally lovely slaves. Victor of the Marathon, you have earned the right of first choice! Take your pick!”
Fidija stood sullenly while the others all postured outrageously, trying to catch Marcus’ eye. To the manifest surprise and dismay of all the girls, including Fidija, Marcus strode right up to her, took her by the arm, and drew her forth to the front.
“I choose the slave Fidija, Shield Maiden of the Allemanni!” Marcus announced.
The stentor repeated, so all could hear; “Champion Marcus Junius Lepidus has chosen the slave Fidija, whom he calls a Shield Maiden of the Allemanni!”
The spectators nodded and smiled to each other. Many whispered to neighbors; “He must enjoy breaking the wild ones!” Indeed, it was true. Marcus did enjoy breaking the wild ones, if they were attractive enough to make the labor worthwhile. Fidija was both one of the wildest, and one of the loveliest slaves he had ever seen. Marcus anticipated a great deal of fun in the process of ‘breaking’ her to obedience.
For the duration of the games, Marcus was staying in a luxurious villa loaned to him by a family friend. That first night, Fidija was left in the slave quarters while Marcus rested from his mighty exertions of the day. After dinner, which was a celebration with many friends and influential well-wishers (during which Marcus’ wine, by his own order, was diluted with double the usual amount of water) Fidija was brought to his bedchamber.
Fidija’s slave collar had been removed and immediately replaced with a new one. The new collar read; This is Fidija, prize of the Olympic games, slave of Marcus Junius Lepidus. This collar had no hanging tag; the words were engraved on the brass of the collar itself.
When he saw Fidija, Marcus’ eyes lit with pleasure. He was eager to begin the taming of this beautiful, sexy and feisty slave girl. He approached her and reached for the shoulder fastenings of the abbreviated himation she had been given to wear. She shied and twisted away, but he grasped one of her wrists.
Under his fingers, Marcus felt the sinews in Fidija’s wrists. He could tell at once, this young woman had been trained to wield the shield and spear that were the traditional weapons of the Allemanni shield maiden. She tried to twist away. She failed, and his free hand shot out with snakelike speed to trap her other wrist.
Bringing Fidija’s wrists together, Marcus enwrapped them both in the fingers of a left hand that was accustomed to holding and moving a massive legionary shield through a long day of fighting, and had been trained with a practice shield that weighed twice as much as the actual military equipment. She struggled with all her considerable strength to free her hands, but in vain.
Despite herself, she was deeply impressed with his effortless physical power.
Even the taller and bulkier men of her tribe had never handled her so easily in the wrestling bouts that were a part of their training. She noticed that he kept her wrists trapped without needing to bear down so hard as hurt her. He was tall enough, and had long enough arms, to hold her arms at full extension over her head and force her to stand on the tips of her toes.
Marcus reached out with his right hand and undid the knot at each shoulder which held up Fidija’s garment. The himation was a simple sewn tube of thin fabric which was supported by ties over both shoulders and sized to come down to the upper thighs.
When he released the second knot, the cloth fell to the floor and formed a little puddle of crumpled fabric around her toes as they scrabbled for support. He stood at arm’s length, still holding her, and slowly examined her person from raised hands to pointed and flexed back toes. He enjoyed the sight. She was the most exciting slave he had ever owned.
Marcus led Fidija, still on her tiptoes, to a nearly horizontal rectangle of stout bronze bars that stood beside the sleeping couch. His servants had set it up there at his command.
Using his free right hand, Marcus adjusted the location of the upper cross bar. There was a double cuff of stout leather attached to the middle of this bar, and he fastened Fidija’s wrists into the two straps. Then he refined the position more exactly to her length with arms extended.
At the lower end of this frame there were two wooden blocks shaped like large wedges riveted to the lower cross bar of the frame. The top of each had a stout, padded leather cuff attached, shaped to receive a woman’s leg below the calf but above the ankle. Marcus fitted Fidija’s legs into these restraints and fastened the cuffs around her ankles.
The entire assemblage was mounted on a wooden support frame, with pillars rising from the four corners of a rectangle that lay on the floor. These pillars held the four corners of the brass frame. The wooden floor frame was braced by two diagonal beams forming an X in the middle. A fifth pillar rose from the cross of the X, with a padded, contoured platform affixed to the top. Marcus repositioned the brass frame so that the small of Fidija’s back lay on this padding.
There was also a stout sheet of canvas, a foot wide, crossing the open rectangle of the brass bars, and attached to the long sidebars. Marcus slid this up to just above Fidija’s shoulders, providing support for her head without straining her neck.
Then he stood back, arms crossed in front of his deep, runner’s chest, to contemplate this lovely morsel of captive femininity. He slowly walked around her, gazing upon her from every angle, and a smile spread more and more widely across his handsome features.
Fidija turned her head as far as she could to keep Marcus in view. She found his unwavering gaze fascinating, like a bird caught by the predatory stare of a serpent. Somehow, despite her resolve to resist, she found the hint of wickedness in his widening smile exciting.
Marcus addressed Fidija; “I will not rape you. I will torment you and tease you until you submit. Before this night ends, you will beg me to take you. When I judge that your begging is sincere, truly heart felt, I may choose to do so. Then again, I may decide not to. If I do, I may decide to take my pleasure of you in a way that does not allow the fulfillment of your own desire. Or, I may choose to allow you to receive pleasure as well. It will be at my whim, my choice. You will learn, there is nothing you can say, nothing you can do, to sway my decision one way or the other. I will say only that honest submission will at least open the door to the possibility of a reward, while resistance will keep it shut tightly.”
“I will never submit. Do your worst. I have been trained to ignore pain. Your efforts will leave enduring marks. By the time you finally give up your futile efforts, I will no longer be quite so pleasing to your sight! You are not capable of giving me either enough pain or enough pleasure to take any notice of!” She said with gloomy satisfaction.
Marcus chuckled and grinned. “Pain will not be needed. I witnessed your weakness last night.”
Fidija’s brow furrowed in puzzlement. She wondered what he meant. He enlightened her; “I saw that you are very ticklish.”
Fidija’s face showed sheer panic. She was indeed very ticklish. She could not abide to be tickled. She hated it! Tickling made her flail and struggle violently, to escape, to cover up, to hit back. But this handsome, powerful warrior had her bound as she had never been in her life. She was not only helpless, she was also completely exposed. There was no part of herself that she could cover or protect. She could not hit or kick. She certainly couldn’t escape!
Perhaps worst of all, the thought of being tickled by this man in particular, of being defenseless at his mercy, was causing her to become aroused. In her present state of bound nakedness, she couldn’t conceal her body’s response. As she saw the enjoyment of her plight in his face, her visible arousal only grew. Fidija blushed, and as he chuckled again the blush extended all the way down to the entire upper surface of her full, firm young breasts.
Marcus said, tauntingly; “Oh, little Fidija. Sweet little slave. How I am going to enjoy this. Breaking you will be more fun than I’ve enjoyed in years.”
“You will never break me. You will never pleasure me! I will ignore your best and worst efforts!” Then Fidija stuck her tongue out at Marcus.
Marcus laughed loudly. This would be even more fun than he had expected! He stepped right up to her right side. He began a slow, thorough, ticklish exploration of her entire person. He carefully noted how she responded to tickling touches on her different parts.
Marcus started with Fidija’s ears, while she violently shook her head in a futile attempt to avoid the light touch of his fingertips. The feather light strokes of his fingers across her smooth cheeks made the skin shiver, while she stoically held in the giggles that tried to escape from her mouth. Despite herself, her luscious lips curved upward in a tiny smile.
When Marcus’ exploration reached the back and sides of her neck she giggled a little. He gently but irresistibly pried open her clenched fists to tickle the palms, producing slight response. The same was true of her shoulders. Tickling Fidija’s throat made her giggle louder, then, as he continued to tease the spot where the throat met the collarbones, she helplessly laughed out loud. It was making her hot as well. Very embarrassing.
Marcus said; “My, what a ticklish little girl you are. Aren’t you, Fidija?”
She obstinately shook her head, not willing to attempt to speak for fear that she would laugh out loud.
Marcus tickled her forearms, discovering a bit of sensitivity on the inner sides. Her elbows, upper arms, and underarms were very disappointing, producing no reaction at all. Tickling the upper surfaces of her sweet looking breasts made her giggle again.
The giggles grew as the tickling was moved down the sides of her breasts, then onto the front right around her nipples, which were fully erect now. When Marcus tickled Fidija’s nipples she giggled louder than ever. When he moved on to the undersides, he elicited the first real laugh he had heard from her. Her arousal was now very obvious, and really embarrassing the girl.
When Marcus softly probed Fidija’s ribs, she could not hold back her laughter, a sweet , merry sound, which continued and grew as he glided his hands up and down the soft, smooth skin of her flanks. She felt humiliated by her inability to control herself. Strangely, that very humiliation, exacerbated by his wicked, teasing smile, was increasing her arousal drastically. She was starting to feel the need for an orgasm.
Tickling her belly and groin, and her womanly hips, caused the 21 year old beauty to burst into peals of wild, uncontrollable laughter. Marcus made Fidija keep laughing helplessly as he tickled her buttocks and the backs and insides of her thighs.
“Ha!” Marcus commented; “Ah Ha! I have you now, little Fidija! Sweet, tender, ticklish little slave! Oh yes my girl! You are mine, and will shortly admit it! For now, slave, just laugh for me! Laugh for your master! Ah, yes, such a sweet, happy sound! Laugh, laugh and laugh!”
Fidija tried to respond with defiance. At first, all she could muster were laughing splutters. Then; “You have no-hahaha-nothing! I-hihihi-I’ll admit NOTHING! Ha ha ! NEVER! HA HA HA!”
Marcus grinned mockingly as he kept tickling Fidija. “You just keep telling yourself that, little slave. Who knows? In time you may come to believe that!”
The arousal this tickling and mocking caused was now driving her wild. Her own growing need was becoming a torment harder to bear than the tickling. Just for completeness, Marcus moved on to see how ticklish she was at the backs of her knees, which was a good bit. Tickling her calves made her giggle, as did tickling her well formed ankles. Her lovely, well arched feet were ticklish enough to keep her laughing, but only a little, her toes only slightly more sensitive.
His examination of his new property complete, Marcus sat in a backless curule chair. He sipped from a goblet of fine Falernian wine, undiluted. While he sipped, Marcus watched his prize gasping and struggling to regain control of her breathing. He refilled the vessel from a small amphora, and stood up to carry it over to Fidija. Tilting her head up with his left hand, he gave her a few sips to drink.
Setting the cup on the nearby table, Marcus mocking asked; “Having fun, pretty Fidija? Your sweet body tells me how much you’re enjoying this. I think you like being helplessly out of control. I think you enjoy being tickled like this, even though it clearly maddens you. Now that I know where your most ticklish places are, now that I carry a map of your sensitive spots in my mind, it is time for the real fun to start! Ah, ha ha!”
Fidija shivered at the words. Somehow, even the thought of this man tickling and teasing her while she was so helpless and vulnerable was a huge turn on.
She tried to deny it to herself, but couldn’t deny the way her body was reacting.
Lying down on the wooden beams under Fidija, there was barely enough space for Marcus’ lean body between the wood and her flesh. He detached and kicked away the pillar under the small of her back, leaving her suspended just above him. His chest was pressed against her shoulder blades, and his chin rested on her shoulder. His bent knees pressed into the backs of her thighs, supporting the weight left hanging by the removal of the platform.
Marcus started by encircling Fidija’s wrists, just below the cuffs which held them, with his big hands. Letting her feel the touch of his palms and fingers, he slowly moved them down to her shoulders. Now he was teasing, not tickling. He moved his Hands over her shoulders and then spread them flat on her shoulder blades, moving them slowly down her back to her buttocks.
There he paused to fondle and squeeze, and then he was running the tips of his fingers up the small valley that Fidija’s back muscles formed right over her spine. All of the fingers of one hand in single file, closely followed by all the fingers of the other hand. Marcus sent wave after wave of thrilling, delicious shivers through her body. She writhed in her bonds, feeling hotter and hotter.
He started where the little valley began just above the cleft of her buttocks, and traced the feature up to where it ended, just below the back of her neck, not just once but again and again and again. When he lifted her hair aside and kissed the back of her neck she jumped and hissed.
“Gods!” Fidija thought; “He is making me so hot!”
Until then, Fidija had been resolutely looking straight up, desperately, futilely trying to ignore Marcus’ nearness. Now she involuntarily turned her face towards his, as he placed his chin on her shoulder again. His intense dark brown eyes caught her blue ones and held them. They stared, eye to eye, neither looking away. She was fascinated and terrified. He was amused and mocking.
Then Marcus went back to tickling Fidija. Both hands were wandering feather light all over her ticklish belly, making her laugh harder and harder. Her body was writhing and squirming, trying to escape from the terrible, wonderful tickling. He made his touch so light, even his palms tickled her. It was sending her arousal higher with every passing minute! Even as she laughed, his eyes held hers. She could not look away.
Marcus moved his hands higher, curled his fingers, and gently dug into Fidija’s ribs. He could feel her body recoil uncontrollably from every gentle prod. He heard the sound of her laughter change, gaining a new note of fear. Momentarily glancing down over her shoulder, he could see that her nipples were so hard they were almost visibly throbbing. Without looking he would have wagered a lot that her labia were fully engorged and wet. He would have won that bet. He returned his gaze to hers, and again their eyes locked, even as she laughed and writhed.
Next Marcus went back to the feather light gliding technique, with hands spread so that all of the fingers and the entire surface of the palms were adding to the tickling sensations tormenting Fidija. Now those spread hands were tickling her curvy flanks, riding smoothly from hips to just below the armpits, then slowly, s-l-o-w-l-y back down again. This made her laugh harder than ever. It was driving her mad! It was also intensely arousing, which only added to her agitation. The fierce concentration of eyes into eyes somehow added to her excitement.
After what seemed like forever to poor Fidija, Marcus decided it was time to combine tickling and teasing. He started to fingertip tickle her buttocks. She shuddered, laughed, and bucked. Then he moved down to the backs of her thighs and he lingered there, tickling and tickling. The laughter poured out of her. Her sexual need was approaching the unbearable! The enjoyment in his eyes, fairly dancing with merry glints, made her even hotter as he kept her gaze rapt from just inches away.
Getting tickled for such a long time, while held so helpless and so vulnerably exposed, was all new to Fidija. The one thing she had expected the least about it all was the way it excited her! Oh, that aspect of it was so infuriating! She had gone from mildly aroused, to highly aroused, to intensely aroused. She had gone farther, to ready to have sex, then to wanting to have sex, and then on to eager to have a sexual release, which was her condition right now.
Marcus stood up and unstrapped the frame-bound Fidija. He set her on her feet and held her arms at her sides. Then he marched her over to the sleeping couch, his overwhelming strength overcoming her attempts to resist.
Marcus casually lifted Fidija and tossed her onto the couch. Then he lay down beside her and stretched her arms out over her head. He placed his powerful left upper arm across both of hers. Her head rested on his biceps, tilted uncomfortably upward by the thick, hard muscle. He slid his right arm under her knees to lift her legs.
Marcus slipped his left leg under both of Fidija’s and lowered hers onto his left leg, separating them so that her left leg crossed his just below his knee, while her right leg was near the top of his thigh. Then Marcus whipped his right leg across the top of both Fidija’s legs, crossed his ankles for leverage and squeezed. All this while she was still gasping to try to regain her breath.
Fidija now tried to wriggle and squirm free of his grasp, but it was too late for that. She struggled futilely against his greater strength and the greater leverage his position gave him. Marcus grinned at her helplessness, whispering mocking taunts in her ears. Fidija was deeply dismayed by the fact that this was increasing her arousal, which he saw. He mocked her for that too. She kept answering defiantly, but her heart was less and less in it.
Then Marcus said, in a more normal tone; “You just aren’t trying hard enough, my girl! Perhaps if I gave you some incentive to really strive?”
Marcus started by tickling Fidija’s hips and her groin with a soft, gliding, feathery touch. She simply howled with laughter. Her struggles did indeed double and redouble under this stimulus. Her laughter grew louder and louder. Now, for the first time, she started to beg him to stop.
Marcus’ only reply was to tickle the sides and undersides of her lovely breasts. He again held her eyes with his own as she helplessly laughed. He immensely enjoyed gazing into her eyes at close range as she laughed and squirmed. Now and then Fidija closed her eyes tightly in helpless mirth. Each time she opened them again, there were his, gazing unwavering into hers, clearly enjoying her torment. Somehow, her knowledge that he was enjoying her sweet, ticklish torture increased her arousal still more.
“But you know how to get me to stop, little Fidija. You must submit to me. Say the words. Tell me that you are my slave, tell me that you submit to me. Tell me that you are my property. Tell me that I own you and that you belong to me. And mean every word. If you say the words and don’t mean them, I will know, and you will be punished.” Marcus said, taunting and teasing with his tone of voice, even as his hands kept on teasing and tickling her body.
Now Marcus had decided to move his hands downward to tickle Fidija’s tender inner thighs. He had to change her position. He placed her hands back to back, and drew a broad leather strap from the headboard. It was attached at one end to the wood. Marcus wrapped her hands and wrists in the free end, leaving almost no slack.
Shifting his imprisoning legs down along her trapped ones, he brought his hands within reach of his new intended target. Marcus’ powerful thighs now enwrapped Fidija’s calves. Twisting into a semi seated position, he was able to lean over her.
Now Marcus carried out his intention, and started to tickle Fidija’s inner thighs. She was screaming in laughter and sexual torment. The last twenty minutes had carried her well beyond eager to needing a climax. He now took her, helplessly struggling and laughing, through desperately needing and on up to frantically needing a climax. The note of defenseless desperation in her laughter was unmistakable.
Marcus leaned up and forward over Fidija’s lovely hips to bring himself closer to her sex. With only his two index fingers he reached forward and started to tickle her fully engorged, throbbing labia. This tickled worse than anything! Fidija just threw her head back and howled in sheer hysterical anguish! And oh dear Gods, her need was becoming worse with every stroke! Surely the Gods could not ask her to endure this without giving in?
Marcus noticed the tears gathering in her eyes. The tears overflowed and began to trickle down her smooth cheeks. Mockingly, tauntingly, he kissed the first few away, visibly savoring the taste. The volume of tears grew swiftly. Fidija was close to breaking. As soon as the tears were streaming down from those great big blue eyes, he knew it. He felt sure that his next trick would crush her resistance.
Marcus had noticed the head of Fidija’s clitoris starting to emerge from under the small hood of flesh that normally hid and protected it. He pulled out a small drawer in the headboard of the couch, and from this drawer drew out a tiny brush. The brush had been fashioned by tying a bundle of soft, fluffy Eider down feathers to a short central stick that served as a handle. Marcus had used these on women before, and he knew the effect it would have on Fidija.
Marcus brushed the incredibly soft, incredibly light fronds of the down feathers over the tip of Fidija’s clit. She reacted as though her body had just been struck by a lightning bolt. After totally freezing for a moment, her laughter came out as a wailing, despairing scream!
In between gales of laughter, Fidiga now begged for mercy. She pleaded, she begged, but she would not speak the words of submission! She would not! She refused! But the torment went on and on and on. Marcus was relentless. He was implacable. He knew very well what the terrible tickling was doing to her. She knew that he knew, and she knew he was loving it. That only made it all worse!
Marcus continued to stroke that unbearably sensitive, tiny nubbin of flesh with those wickedly soft eider feathers. How long it went on, neither of them knew. They lost track of time. He was aware that she held out for an amazingly long time against such unbearable torment.
Fidija screamed and screamed. Finally, after what seemed an eternity, the scream came out with the words in it; “No, please! EEEEHAHAHAHA! No more! EEEHAHEEHEE! I submit! HAWHAWHAW! I submit!”
Marcus smiled broadly and paused in his maddening torture of Fidija’s privates; “Of course you do. Now say the rest of the words also little one. Otherwise, I will know you lied about submitting, and your punishment will be hours and hours of tickling.”
With the momentary respite, Fidija recanted her submission and defied him again. Marcus only smiled at her. He drew a two hour glass from the base of the couch, and told her; “Two hours of tickling, at least, for your perfidy.”
He applied the wicked eider fluff to her nipples for a long, long time. Then to the sides and undersides of her breasts. Then to her inner thighs and labia. Soon she was begging and pleading again, but the words that he wanted to hear, the words of submission, did not pass her lips.
The sands in the glass ran out. Grinning happily, Marcus turned it again. Fidija sobbed at the sight, knowing what it meant. But she still would not utter those words. He resumed the unbearable tickle tease.
When the sands were about to run out again, he judged that her sensitive clit had had time to recover from the first round of tickling, and once more applied the tickly fluff to it. Her torment was insupportable. Her face was streaked with the dried tracks of her streams of tears. She was on the brink of passing out. She had been on that brink for some time, being skillfully kept there.
The hourglass emptied again. Marcus reached out and turned it again. Fidija sobbed. It was too much! Too much! She had held out for such a long time, but her endurance was finally exhausted.
Gasping for breath, tearfully, Fidija told Marcus; “I am your slave. I submit to you. I am your property. You own me.” With a wrenching sob; “I belong to you, war chief.”
Still, she would not call him master! But Marcus accepted that. That could come later. For now, he was content with the submission she had made.
“Excellent Fidija. Very good. That sounded very sincere. Now, as I promised, I will consider rewarding you. While I consider, I want you to laugh for me. I may choose to stop tickling. I may not. I may choose to give you an orgasm. I may choose not to. While I consider your fate little pretty slave, laugh for your war chief, for your master.”
Marcus leaned back on the couch now, and resumed tickling Fidija’s belly and sides. He loved how the lightest grazing touch of his fingertips made her roar with wild laughter. Between the guffaws, the girl begged him for mercy. Over and over again she protested that she had submitted, that she was his, and all the rest. All except that one word, master. She would not call him master! She wouldn’t!
Marcus knew Fidija’s arousal was even more of a torment than the tickling.
Insinuatingly, tauntingly, Marcus suggested; “Other than ceasing to tickle you, little one, is there something you would like your master to do for you? Some other need you would like to have met by your war chief?”
“Yes war chief! HAHAHA! Let me cum! HAHAHAHA! PleeheeheeHEEHEEHEEZE!”
“How would you like me to do that, my ticklish little slave girl?”
“HEEEEHEEHEE! Take meeeheeHEEHEEHEE! Take me! HAWHAWHAWHAW!”
“See? I told you that you would ask me, would beg me to take you, Didn’t I?”
“Yehehehehes! Yes war chief! Youhoohoo told meeheehee! Pleheeheeze! I am begging youhoohoooooo! Take me! Hah hah hah HAH HAH HAH!”
“You just keep begging and pleading girl. If I decide to, and when I decide to, I will”
Marcus was fascinated by the way Fidija’s lovely body responded to his touch. He reveled in the texture of her smooth, soft skin under his fingers and palms. He lost all track of time, as she already had. Neither of them could have said if it went on for minutes or hours.
A time came when Fidija stopped begging and pleading. She seemed to accept that she could not affect his actions, that it was all up to him to decide when and if the tickling would stop, when and if she would be allowed to climax.
Marcus said; “Let’s hear that word little Fidija. Let’s hear that word you’ve refused to speak. Adress me as master, and then you might earn a reward. Perhaps not, but maybe.”
Amid sobbing laughter; “Yes HEEEEEEEE hee hee! M,m,m,m master, Please!”
It happened suddenly, taking her by surprise. Marcus released his hold on her, leapt into position between her legs, leaned over her, seized Fidija by the hips and engulfed her throbbing clit with his soft, wet lips and tongue. He stretched his legs out behind him, allowing the weight of his upper body to settle onto her thighs, holding her legs in place.
While his hands resumed tickling her hips, keeping her in hysterical agony, his mouth brought her to orgasm, then to a second and a third. Then he almost gave her a fourth, but stopped at a stage when her need for release was again at it’s highest.
Now Marcus stood up, stepped back and opened and dropped his knee length tunic. He had nothing on underneath. Seeing that masculine body with it’s long, firm erection, Fidija unconsciously licked her lips.
Walking forward again, Marcus released attached a long chain to Fidija’s collar. The other end was fastened to a stout iron ring set in the wooden base of the couch. Once again he joined her on the couch, and began to make love to her.
She no longer thought of resistance. He no longer thought of tickling her. When he kissed her, she kissed back. When he entered her she replied to every thrust in kind. She lost track of how many orgasms she had before he filled her with his own.
After the lovemaking, Marcus sent Fidija to sleep in a nest of furs beside the bed. He informed her that sleeping beside her master was a thing she must earn. But he told her that she could earn that right, he was sure. It belonged to the favorite among his slave girls.
Her last thought before drifting off to sleep was that yes, she really was a slave, but maybe that would not turn out to be so bad. In the morning, when she awoke, her attitude had reverted.
“Just because I yielded to inhuman torture last night, don’t think I’m going to be an obedient little slave from now on!” Fidija greeted Marcus upon his awakening. “Last night you caught me by surprise! From now on, I’ll know what to expect.”
Her chin was set in an attitude of great determination. “You will never hear those humiliating words of submission from my lips again!” She asserted proudly.
Marcus grinned at her. He summoned servants to take her back to the slave quarters. Today he would enjoy more of the Olympic games as an honored spectator, viewing from the champion’s seats. Tonight, he would break this delicious slave again.
He hoped she was right about it not being as easy the second time. He hoped she would continue to recant and take back her submission of the previous night every morning. He had been quite correct; taming this fiery little slave would be great, great fun indeed!
A Hysterical Historical by Mastertank1
The character of Fidija is based on a TMF lady who shall not be named, by her own choice.
The character of Marcus Junius Lepidus is based on the personal fantasy of the lady who is the basis for Fidija.
This story was sold to Tickler’s Paradise, on an agreement for 1 year’s exclusivity, just over one year ago. I am now free to publish it here for the first time.
Even Marcus Junius Lepidus himself was dizzied by the speed with which he had risen through the ranks of the XIIth Legion Fulmina. Less than two years ago, he had followed the advice of his father Aurelius, head of the wealthy and powerful family of the Junii Lepidi, by entering the legion as a common legionary.
He could have taken advantage of his family connection to begin as an officer, but his father had told him that too many young patricians of Rome’s ruling class did exactly that. Most of them turned out to have no idea what the Pluto they were doing. If they were unlucky enough to have their unit dropped in the stewpot of a desperate combat before they had a chance to gain experience, that could cost the lives of good legionaries who deserved better of their appointed leaders.
Marcus had chosen to enter the XIIth because that legion had received its honorific nickname, Fulmina or Lightning, by setting many records for marching speed. Either on the magnificent Roman roads or across country, the XIIth Fulmina moved faster than any other legion. It seemed a natural fit for the winner of the Marathon race at the most recent quadrennial games held at Mount Olympus.
In his first fight as a legionary, Marcus’s squad leader had been killed. Seemingly by instinct, Marcus had seen what needed to be done and snapped out orders. The rest of the squad had responded to the confident tone of Marcus' voice by obeying instantly. The result was that despite his lack of seniority Marcus had been promoted to Decurion after only two months in the legion.
Three months later, when the Centurion who commanded his century had retired after 30 years of active service, everyone had wondered who the next commander would be. The outgoing centurion told his superiors that Marcus was the best Decurion in the century, and so he was raised to centurion.
Five months after that, after grueling and brutal campaigning, the commander of one of the ten cohorts that made up the legion had been invalided out with a leg so badly broken he would never march on it again. The commander of the legion had conferred with the Primus Pilus or first spear, the senior centurion of the legion, and with the nine remaining cohort commanders. They all agreed that Marcus was the best of the centurions in the XIIth, and promoted him to the military rank of Tribune, commander of a cohort of six centuries. (Not to be confused with the civil rank of Tribune, ten magistrates elected annually by the plebeians of the city of Rome to protect the rights of the people by exercising the power of veto over the acts of the Senate.)
One year later, due to attrition among the tribunes, Marcus stood fourth in seniority and was generally acknowledged to be the most capable of the ten.
The last five months of that year had been devoted to the expedition across the river Rhine. The commander of the army to which the XIIth belonged, Gaius Julius Caesar, had determined that the Teutonic tribes who dwelt there must be punished and awed in order to stop their continual raids.
The expedition had been amazingly successful. The tribes’ attempt to ambush the legions had been thwarted by Caesar’s vigilance and the knowledge of an advisor. The tribes had been utterly crushed, and many villages razed and prisoners taken.
In the fighting, the legate commanding the XIIth had been slain, and Marcus was judged the best of the tribunes. Caesar had promoted Marcus to legate and given him command of the legion. Now they were having a triumph, a ritual celebratory parade of representative cohorts of the legions that had participated and the officers who had commanded, through the streets of Rome. They received the unrestrained adulation of the mob.
At the feast after the parade, someone mentioned that the next quadrennial games at Mount Olympus were coming up. Marcus asked Caesar if he could have leave to train for and participate in the games for the honor of Rome. Caesar remembered that Marcus had won the Marathon four years ago, and indulgently agreed.
Caesar wanted to let his nephew Brutus gain some experience in commanding a legion, and the months of Marcus’ absence would be perfect. That term would let the young man get meaningful experience without committing him to remain with the legion for years as becoming it’s permanent commander would have.
Even though traveling across the Appenine Mountains and the Adriatic Sea was the shortest distance, the absence of roads meant it would actually have taken longer. Instead, he traveled west to Ostia, the seaport serving Rome, and took ship for Corinth in Greece. From there it was a short journey over good roads to Olympia, at the foot of Mount Olympus.
The betting was heavily against Marcus. He did not quite have the long, lean build of a successful runner. Many of the bettors, even those who had seen him run four years ago, felt that due to the changes in his physique he could no longer win a race over such a distance.
Marcus’ chosen event, the Marathon, was more than 26 miles long. It was a real test of endurance. What the bettors and spectators didn’t know, couldn’t know, was the way Marcus had trained.
As an officer in a legion on route march, Marcus could have ridden a horse or driven a chariot. In fact, that was customary. Marcus chose to march on foot right along with his troops, earning their respect. But he didn’t just march.
From the moment the legion hit the road in the morning until they turned aside to make camp for the night, Marcus could be seen trotting up and down the column. Over and over again, he would trot to the head of the column to check on progress, then turn around and trot down the column to the tail to make sure that no one was lagging. Then he would turn round again and repeat the process.
Along the way he would look in every unit, making sure all of his men were alright. He would also swerve wide away from the column to see that the flank, vanguard and rear scouts were alert and in position. They had to be far enough out to give a timely warning if they saw a hostile force approaching, and yet close enough for the main force to receive the warning quickly enough to get ready. And, Marcus did this wearing full armor!
All of this exercise made Marcus noticeably more muscular than the usual long distance runner in the legs, hips and lower torso. In addition, his arms and shoulders had the power to hurl a dozen of the heavy war spears called Pila to a distance of 30 paces, one after another. Then he could spend an entire day fighting with massive shield and sturdy shortsword, just like any legionary veteran.
The betting odds might have changed if the bookies were aware of Marcus’ near superhuman endurance. Or if they knew that the men of his legion had given him the nickname ‘the man of living bronze’ because of his phenomenal endurance and deep tan.
Marcus’ Celtic mother and grandmother, both from the province of Cisalpine Gaul, had given him unusual height for a Roman, just under 6 feet tall(180 centimeters). He weighed a full 178 pounds(81 Kilos), his legs, hips and lower torso looking bigger than those of the average long distance runner, with the solid, bulky arms and chest of a swordsman. His professional swordsmanship also gave him unusually large, exceptionally powerful hands. Hands many women thought beautiful as they imagined him touching them with those hands.
Marcus’ dark brown, very short hair and dark brown eyes set in a masculinely handsome, regular featured face, which he kept shaved like most patricians, completed a picture which cut a swath among women of both the patricians and the plebs. Or it would have, had Marcus not been so dedicated to his profession of arms and his calling of athletic competition.
Marcus knew very well what he could do, and he was confident of victory. He gathered every talent and sesterce he owned, and all he could borrow or beg from friends and relatives. In order to avoid changing the odds by showing too much confidence in himself, he had a trusted friend pretend to be drunk when the friend bet all that money on Marcus to win the Marathon.
For inspiration, Marcus strolled down the center aisle of the long pavilion where the prizes were on display. The organizers of the event gave only a laurel wreath for each winner to wear about his head. The rulers of various cities, the governors of several Roman provinces, and the Senate of Rome each offered prizes to any athlete from their jurisdiction who won an event.
As the winner at the previous Olympiad, there was no question that Marcus would represent Rome in this years’ Marathon run. The prize offered by the Senate to any Roman who won the Marathon was the largest of all, as the Marathon was the oldest and most demanding event in the games.
There the prize sat, under guard of a squad of legionaries in full armor. A chest containing 20 talents weight of pure gold, equal to two years’ income for a very wealthy family, stood proudly open upon it’s pedestal. Atop the profusion of coins within sat an artificial laurel crown, wrought in pure gold by masters of the goldsmith’s craft.
Marcus had also wagered a total of 7 talents at the prevailing odds against him of 9 to 1. Including the Senatorial prize, a victory would leave him with 83 talents, a moderately large fortune. ( A talent equaled about 5000 sesterces. A sesterce then bought about what a 20 dollar bill does today. So figure 1 talent as equal to $100,000.)
Marcus stood contemplating the fruits of victory, when a sound caught his attention. It came from the rear of the pavilion, the area where the slave girls to be offered as prizes were kept.
Each slave girl wore a collar with a large tag at the front, showing the ruler or jurisdiction which offered her as an incentive to its athletes. A winner would have his choice, in order of the traditional importance of his event. As Marcus well knew, the winner of the Marathon would choose first in any jurisdiction.
The sound which had caught his attention was a disagreement of some kind among the slave girls. From what he overheard as he hurried to watch, they were fighting over who was worth more at auction. Marcus was vastly amused as he watched.
One girl was easily dominating the others. She stood 5’3” (160 cm) and weighed about 128 pounds(58 kilos). She had short golden hair, huge, brilliant sapphire blue eyes, and a lovely heart shaped face. Her shape was very tight, with solid muscle concealed under a thin layer of fat. The body shape this combination produced was very enticingly feminine and sexy.
What the fight had started over Marcus neither knew nor cared. What he wanted to know was the name of the blonde beauty who dominated the other slave women with her presence and physical ability.
Marcus barked out a loud command to stop. All of them did, except for the short, powerful blonde who had caught his interest. She couldn’t resist taking one more solid swat at her latest opponent.
Recognizing her as a member of one of the Teutonic tribes he had been fighting on his last expedition, Marcus addressed her in her own language; “Why are you so disobedient, slave?”
She replied; “You have no right to expect my obedience! I am no slave; I am a free Shield Maiden of the Allemanni!”
Marcus reached out and grabbed the tag hanging down from the front of her collar. She tried with both hands to break his grip, but that large, capable, masculine hand was far too strong. He pulled her inexorably over to the nearest wall sconce. By the light of the torch there, he read the words; “Slave Fidija, owner The Senate And People Of Rome.”
“A Shield maiden of the Allemanni, are you? Why did you not die in battle?”
Sullenly; “I was struck on the head by a sling stone that ricocheted from a Roman shield! They captured me while unconscious, and when I awoke I was chained! Then, I heard the chief of my tribe pledge that none of those taken captive by the Romans would escape, in return for your chief’s oath not to destroy the tribe entirely. I am honor bound not to escape, but there is no pledge to obey! And I will not! I am a war captive, not a slave!”
“I have a race to win tomorrow. Then, I shall have first choice of you slave women. In Rome, a war captive IS a slave. Only a noble hostage is not, and you are not one of those. Soon or late, you will learn to submit and obey.”
Other slave women crowded forward, vying for the attention of this devastatingly handsome man who might soon have the choice of any of them. Far better, they felt, to belong to this good looking, clean limbed runner than one of those lumpish, greasy wrestlers, boxers or weight lifters!
They cried out to Marcus to choose them rather than this rebellious bit of baggage from the wilds of Germania. When they began to crowd what Fidija regarded as her personal space, she roughly shoved them back, and the altercation free for all resumed.
Marcus watched in amusement, until one girl, trapped in a painful looking headlock, tickled Fidija’s ribs. Fidija laughed and jumped back, hurling the offender in the other direction violently with a vile curse. That caught Marcus’ attention. He smiled broadly, and walked off to seek his rest, having made a decision.
The following morning, while the air was still cool, the Marathoners lined up for the race. As the winner of the previous Marathon, Marcus had the privilege of the front row right corner starting position. The starter dropped his signal cloth, and they were off.
The slaves of the prize pool were sitting on a hill above the seats for spectators. They avidly watched the runners until they vanished in the distance. Fidija could not help staring at Marcus.
He was the only Roman she had ever seen who was nearly as tall as the men of her own tribe. She grudgingly admitted that his face was not unpleasing to look at either.
The way he did not have the bulgy, ugly musculature of most Romans, but still had more heft and solidity than the lean, rangy runner/scouts of her own tribe was also attractive. She startled herself with the thought that if she must belong to some man, he would be less bad than most, especially because he spoke her language.
Marcus had loped easily out to an early lead. His legs, very long for a Roman, flashed in what looked like an effortless ground-eating stride. When the pack of runners passed out of sight over the crest of a distant hill, Marcus was well ahead of the rest and seemed to be opening his lead still further.
Marcus’ clever race strategy was working. By opening an early and long lead, he made the other front runners nervous. They exerted themselves to catch up, running at a pace that they could not sustain for the entire race.
Once the other seven men of the front row were all ahead of him, he slowly let his pace slacken to a speed he could keep up all day. The fact that the entire second row and half of the third overhauled and passed him was part of the plan. He would simply leave those up front to challenge each other, none of them willing to slacken the unsustainable pace he had set and let the others pull away from them.
Half way through the race, the lead group had opened a gap between them and the main body, but they were no longer gaining on Marcus. Marcus was all alone, halfway between the main body who had fallen behind him, and the lead group who were up ahead.
Three quarters of the way through the race, the distance between Marcus and the main body was rapidly growing, while he had nearly caught up to the leaders. He was still keeping the same speed, but the men ahead of him were slowing due to fatigue. In the many challenges among them that Marcus had instigated, they had run themselves out. The distance between the leaders and the pack was shorter as well.
Marcus moved up into the lead group, making his way past one tired and gasping runner after another. When he was in fifth place, the man in fourth glimpsed Marcus overhauling him and began a panicked sprint, way too far from the finish. That man’s burst of speed carried him into second, which startled the men in second and third into ill considered sprints.
The second and third placers passed the leader, who responded by putting on speed and reclaiming the lead. For a few hundred feet they opened a distance from Marcus, but then they were all blown.
Marcus remained at the same steady rate, and with 300 yards left to go passed them all and regained the lead. The others had nothing left. It was all they could do to keep moving until they crossed the finish line.
Marcus, to show his superiority, put on the sprint he had saved until now. He rapidly increased his lead. When he finished the race, Marcus was all of sixty yards ahead of his nearest competitor. It was one of the most decisive Marathon victories ever recorded.
While most of the other Marathoners collapsed or had to be supported out of the way as soon as they crossed the line, Marcus remained upright. He ‘walked himself down’ the way a groom would a horse who had been run too hard, now and then ‘shaking out’ each leg to promote circulation of the blood.
Spectators who had backed other runners murmured that he must be a demi-god. Possibly the result of a dalliance of Hermes/Mercury’s with a human woman, something all the male Olympian Gods were notorious for. Romans in the crowd spoke rather more loudly of the ‘well known natural superiority of the Patrician race of Rome’. Still unassisted, Marcus walked into the competitor’s pavilion for a rest and refreshment.
Later, when the heat of the summer day had passed, the days’ winners gathered in the cool of gathering dusk for the award ceremony. The prize slaves had long since been placed under shelter from the sun. They were bathed and perfumed, willingly or not, and brought forth to stand to one side of the winner’s podium.
The first, second and third of the marathon were called to the podium before any others. Marcus had already collected his winnings from the bookmakers, accompanied by his retinue of a dozen tough, hard retired legionaries who lived on his family latifundium. Now the stentor of the games announced; “Winner of the Marathon, Marcus Junius Lepidus, eldest scion of the Junii Lepidi, Patrician of Rome and Legate of the XIIth Legion Fulmina!”
“So”, Fidija thought; “He is a warrior as well as an athlete. His legion was one of those that followed Caesar in his punishment of my people for our raids!”
The magister ludi, master of the games, placed the special solid gold replica of a laurel wreath upon Marcus’ brow. The chest of gold coins and the other prizes he had won were displayed for the crowd, then taken into custody by Marcus’ retainers, with thanks to the various patrons who had supplied the prizes.
“Last but not least,” cried the stentor; “Thanks to the munificence of that well known patron of athletics, Lentullus Batiatus of Capua, the famous lanista (A lanista was an owner/ trainer of gladiators. Lentullus Batiatus was later to become far more famous, or rather infamous, as the lanista who had trained the rebel gladiator Spartacus of Thrace, and whose mistreatment of Spartacus’ woman provoked his revolt.) we have a selection of exceptionally lovely slaves. Victor of the Marathon, you have earned the right of first choice! Take your pick!”
Fidija stood sullenly while the others all postured outrageously, trying to catch Marcus’ eye. To the manifest surprise and dismay of all the girls, including Fidija, Marcus strode right up to her, took her by the arm, and drew her forth to the front.
“I choose the slave Fidija, Shield Maiden of the Allemanni!” Marcus announced.
The stentor repeated, so all could hear; “Champion Marcus Junius Lepidus has chosen the slave Fidija, whom he calls a Shield Maiden of the Allemanni!”
The spectators nodded and smiled to each other. Many whispered to neighbors; “He must enjoy breaking the wild ones!” Indeed, it was true. Marcus did enjoy breaking the wild ones, if they were attractive enough to make the labor worthwhile. Fidija was both one of the wildest, and one of the loveliest slaves he had ever seen. Marcus anticipated a great deal of fun in the process of ‘breaking’ her to obedience.
For the duration of the games, Marcus was staying in a luxurious villa loaned to him by a family friend. That first night, Fidija was left in the slave quarters while Marcus rested from his mighty exertions of the day. After dinner, which was a celebration with many friends and influential well-wishers (during which Marcus’ wine, by his own order, was diluted with double the usual amount of water) Fidija was brought to his bedchamber.
Fidija’s slave collar had been removed and immediately replaced with a new one. The new collar read; This is Fidija, prize of the Olympic games, slave of Marcus Junius Lepidus. This collar had no hanging tag; the words were engraved on the brass of the collar itself.
When he saw Fidija, Marcus’ eyes lit with pleasure. He was eager to begin the taming of this beautiful, sexy and feisty slave girl. He approached her and reached for the shoulder fastenings of the abbreviated himation she had been given to wear. She shied and twisted away, but he grasped one of her wrists.
Under his fingers, Marcus felt the sinews in Fidija’s wrists. He could tell at once, this young woman had been trained to wield the shield and spear that were the traditional weapons of the Allemanni shield maiden. She tried to twist away. She failed, and his free hand shot out with snakelike speed to trap her other wrist.
Bringing Fidija’s wrists together, Marcus enwrapped them both in the fingers of a left hand that was accustomed to holding and moving a massive legionary shield through a long day of fighting, and had been trained with a practice shield that weighed twice as much as the actual military equipment. She struggled with all her considerable strength to free her hands, but in vain.
Despite herself, she was deeply impressed with his effortless physical power.
Even the taller and bulkier men of her tribe had never handled her so easily in the wrestling bouts that were a part of their training. She noticed that he kept her wrists trapped without needing to bear down so hard as hurt her. He was tall enough, and had long enough arms, to hold her arms at full extension over her head and force her to stand on the tips of her toes.
Marcus reached out with his right hand and undid the knot at each shoulder which held up Fidija’s garment. The himation was a simple sewn tube of thin fabric which was supported by ties over both shoulders and sized to come down to the upper thighs.
When he released the second knot, the cloth fell to the floor and formed a little puddle of crumpled fabric around her toes as they scrabbled for support. He stood at arm’s length, still holding her, and slowly examined her person from raised hands to pointed and flexed back toes. He enjoyed the sight. She was the most exciting slave he had ever owned.
Marcus led Fidija, still on her tiptoes, to a nearly horizontal rectangle of stout bronze bars that stood beside the sleeping couch. His servants had set it up there at his command.
Using his free right hand, Marcus adjusted the location of the upper cross bar. There was a double cuff of stout leather attached to the middle of this bar, and he fastened Fidija’s wrists into the two straps. Then he refined the position more exactly to her length with arms extended.
At the lower end of this frame there were two wooden blocks shaped like large wedges riveted to the lower cross bar of the frame. The top of each had a stout, padded leather cuff attached, shaped to receive a woman’s leg below the calf but above the ankle. Marcus fitted Fidija’s legs into these restraints and fastened the cuffs around her ankles.
The entire assemblage was mounted on a wooden support frame, with pillars rising from the four corners of a rectangle that lay on the floor. These pillars held the four corners of the brass frame. The wooden floor frame was braced by two diagonal beams forming an X in the middle. A fifth pillar rose from the cross of the X, with a padded, contoured platform affixed to the top. Marcus repositioned the brass frame so that the small of Fidija’s back lay on this padding.
There was also a stout sheet of canvas, a foot wide, crossing the open rectangle of the brass bars, and attached to the long sidebars. Marcus slid this up to just above Fidija’s shoulders, providing support for her head without straining her neck.
Then he stood back, arms crossed in front of his deep, runner’s chest, to contemplate this lovely morsel of captive femininity. He slowly walked around her, gazing upon her from every angle, and a smile spread more and more widely across his handsome features.
Fidija turned her head as far as she could to keep Marcus in view. She found his unwavering gaze fascinating, like a bird caught by the predatory stare of a serpent. Somehow, despite her resolve to resist, she found the hint of wickedness in his widening smile exciting.
Marcus addressed Fidija; “I will not rape you. I will torment you and tease you until you submit. Before this night ends, you will beg me to take you. When I judge that your begging is sincere, truly heart felt, I may choose to do so. Then again, I may decide not to. If I do, I may decide to take my pleasure of you in a way that does not allow the fulfillment of your own desire. Or, I may choose to allow you to receive pleasure as well. It will be at my whim, my choice. You will learn, there is nothing you can say, nothing you can do, to sway my decision one way or the other. I will say only that honest submission will at least open the door to the possibility of a reward, while resistance will keep it shut tightly.”
“I will never submit. Do your worst. I have been trained to ignore pain. Your efforts will leave enduring marks. By the time you finally give up your futile efforts, I will no longer be quite so pleasing to your sight! You are not capable of giving me either enough pain or enough pleasure to take any notice of!” She said with gloomy satisfaction.
Marcus chuckled and grinned. “Pain will not be needed. I witnessed your weakness last night.”
Fidija’s brow furrowed in puzzlement. She wondered what he meant. He enlightened her; “I saw that you are very ticklish.”
Fidija’s face showed sheer panic. She was indeed very ticklish. She could not abide to be tickled. She hated it! Tickling made her flail and struggle violently, to escape, to cover up, to hit back. But this handsome, powerful warrior had her bound as she had never been in her life. She was not only helpless, she was also completely exposed. There was no part of herself that she could cover or protect. She could not hit or kick. She certainly couldn’t escape!
Perhaps worst of all, the thought of being tickled by this man in particular, of being defenseless at his mercy, was causing her to become aroused. In her present state of bound nakedness, she couldn’t conceal her body’s response. As she saw the enjoyment of her plight in his face, her visible arousal only grew. Fidija blushed, and as he chuckled again the blush extended all the way down to the entire upper surface of her full, firm young breasts.
Marcus said, tauntingly; “Oh, little Fidija. Sweet little slave. How I am going to enjoy this. Breaking you will be more fun than I’ve enjoyed in years.”
“You will never break me. You will never pleasure me! I will ignore your best and worst efforts!” Then Fidija stuck her tongue out at Marcus.
Marcus laughed loudly. This would be even more fun than he had expected! He stepped right up to her right side. He began a slow, thorough, ticklish exploration of her entire person. He carefully noted how she responded to tickling touches on her different parts.
Marcus started with Fidija’s ears, while she violently shook her head in a futile attempt to avoid the light touch of his fingertips. The feather light strokes of his fingers across her smooth cheeks made the skin shiver, while she stoically held in the giggles that tried to escape from her mouth. Despite herself, her luscious lips curved upward in a tiny smile.
When Marcus’ exploration reached the back and sides of her neck she giggled a little. He gently but irresistibly pried open her clenched fists to tickle the palms, producing slight response. The same was true of her shoulders. Tickling Fidija’s throat made her giggle louder, then, as he continued to tease the spot where the throat met the collarbones, she helplessly laughed out loud. It was making her hot as well. Very embarrassing.
Marcus said; “My, what a ticklish little girl you are. Aren’t you, Fidija?”
She obstinately shook her head, not willing to attempt to speak for fear that she would laugh out loud.
Marcus tickled her forearms, discovering a bit of sensitivity on the inner sides. Her elbows, upper arms, and underarms were very disappointing, producing no reaction at all. Tickling the upper surfaces of her sweet looking breasts made her giggle again.
The giggles grew as the tickling was moved down the sides of her breasts, then onto the front right around her nipples, which were fully erect now. When Marcus tickled Fidija’s nipples she giggled louder than ever. When he moved on to the undersides, he elicited the first real laugh he had heard from her. Her arousal was now very obvious, and really embarrassing the girl.
When Marcus softly probed Fidija’s ribs, she could not hold back her laughter, a sweet , merry sound, which continued and grew as he glided his hands up and down the soft, smooth skin of her flanks. She felt humiliated by her inability to control herself. Strangely, that very humiliation, exacerbated by his wicked, teasing smile, was increasing her arousal drastically. She was starting to feel the need for an orgasm.
Tickling her belly and groin, and her womanly hips, caused the 21 year old beauty to burst into peals of wild, uncontrollable laughter. Marcus made Fidija keep laughing helplessly as he tickled her buttocks and the backs and insides of her thighs.
“Ha!” Marcus commented; “Ah Ha! I have you now, little Fidija! Sweet, tender, ticklish little slave! Oh yes my girl! You are mine, and will shortly admit it! For now, slave, just laugh for me! Laugh for your master! Ah, yes, such a sweet, happy sound! Laugh, laugh and laugh!”
Fidija tried to respond with defiance. At first, all she could muster were laughing splutters. Then; “You have no-hahaha-nothing! I-hihihi-I’ll admit NOTHING! Ha ha ! NEVER! HA HA HA!”
Marcus grinned mockingly as he kept tickling Fidija. “You just keep telling yourself that, little slave. Who knows? In time you may come to believe that!”
The arousal this tickling and mocking caused was now driving her wild. Her own growing need was becoming a torment harder to bear than the tickling. Just for completeness, Marcus moved on to see how ticklish she was at the backs of her knees, which was a good bit. Tickling her calves made her giggle, as did tickling her well formed ankles. Her lovely, well arched feet were ticklish enough to keep her laughing, but only a little, her toes only slightly more sensitive.
His examination of his new property complete, Marcus sat in a backless curule chair. He sipped from a goblet of fine Falernian wine, undiluted. While he sipped, Marcus watched his prize gasping and struggling to regain control of her breathing. He refilled the vessel from a small amphora, and stood up to carry it over to Fidija. Tilting her head up with his left hand, he gave her a few sips to drink.
Setting the cup on the nearby table, Marcus mocking asked; “Having fun, pretty Fidija? Your sweet body tells me how much you’re enjoying this. I think you like being helplessly out of control. I think you enjoy being tickled like this, even though it clearly maddens you. Now that I know where your most ticklish places are, now that I carry a map of your sensitive spots in my mind, it is time for the real fun to start! Ah, ha ha!”
Fidija shivered at the words. Somehow, even the thought of this man tickling and teasing her while she was so helpless and vulnerable was a huge turn on.
She tried to deny it to herself, but couldn’t deny the way her body was reacting.
Lying down on the wooden beams under Fidija, there was barely enough space for Marcus’ lean body between the wood and her flesh. He detached and kicked away the pillar under the small of her back, leaving her suspended just above him. His chest was pressed against her shoulder blades, and his chin rested on her shoulder. His bent knees pressed into the backs of her thighs, supporting the weight left hanging by the removal of the platform.
Marcus started by encircling Fidija’s wrists, just below the cuffs which held them, with his big hands. Letting her feel the touch of his palms and fingers, he slowly moved them down to her shoulders. Now he was teasing, not tickling. He moved his Hands over her shoulders and then spread them flat on her shoulder blades, moving them slowly down her back to her buttocks.
There he paused to fondle and squeeze, and then he was running the tips of his fingers up the small valley that Fidija’s back muscles formed right over her spine. All of the fingers of one hand in single file, closely followed by all the fingers of the other hand. Marcus sent wave after wave of thrilling, delicious shivers through her body. She writhed in her bonds, feeling hotter and hotter.
He started where the little valley began just above the cleft of her buttocks, and traced the feature up to where it ended, just below the back of her neck, not just once but again and again and again. When he lifted her hair aside and kissed the back of her neck she jumped and hissed.
“Gods!” Fidija thought; “He is making me so hot!”
Until then, Fidija had been resolutely looking straight up, desperately, futilely trying to ignore Marcus’ nearness. Now she involuntarily turned her face towards his, as he placed his chin on her shoulder again. His intense dark brown eyes caught her blue ones and held them. They stared, eye to eye, neither looking away. She was fascinated and terrified. He was amused and mocking.
Then Marcus went back to tickling Fidija. Both hands were wandering feather light all over her ticklish belly, making her laugh harder and harder. Her body was writhing and squirming, trying to escape from the terrible, wonderful tickling. He made his touch so light, even his palms tickled her. It was sending her arousal higher with every passing minute! Even as she laughed, his eyes held hers. She could not look away.
Marcus moved his hands higher, curled his fingers, and gently dug into Fidija’s ribs. He could feel her body recoil uncontrollably from every gentle prod. He heard the sound of her laughter change, gaining a new note of fear. Momentarily glancing down over her shoulder, he could see that her nipples were so hard they were almost visibly throbbing. Without looking he would have wagered a lot that her labia were fully engorged and wet. He would have won that bet. He returned his gaze to hers, and again their eyes locked, even as she laughed and writhed.
Next Marcus went back to the feather light gliding technique, with hands spread so that all of the fingers and the entire surface of the palms were adding to the tickling sensations tormenting Fidija. Now those spread hands were tickling her curvy flanks, riding smoothly from hips to just below the armpits, then slowly, s-l-o-w-l-y back down again. This made her laugh harder than ever. It was driving her mad! It was also intensely arousing, which only added to her agitation. The fierce concentration of eyes into eyes somehow added to her excitement.
After what seemed like forever to poor Fidija, Marcus decided it was time to combine tickling and teasing. He started to fingertip tickle her buttocks. She shuddered, laughed, and bucked. Then he moved down to the backs of her thighs and he lingered there, tickling and tickling. The laughter poured out of her. Her sexual need was approaching the unbearable! The enjoyment in his eyes, fairly dancing with merry glints, made her even hotter as he kept her gaze rapt from just inches away.
Getting tickled for such a long time, while held so helpless and so vulnerably exposed, was all new to Fidija. The one thing she had expected the least about it all was the way it excited her! Oh, that aspect of it was so infuriating! She had gone from mildly aroused, to highly aroused, to intensely aroused. She had gone farther, to ready to have sex, then to wanting to have sex, and then on to eager to have a sexual release, which was her condition right now.
Marcus stood up and unstrapped the frame-bound Fidija. He set her on her feet and held her arms at her sides. Then he marched her over to the sleeping couch, his overwhelming strength overcoming her attempts to resist.
Marcus casually lifted Fidija and tossed her onto the couch. Then he lay down beside her and stretched her arms out over her head. He placed his powerful left upper arm across both of hers. Her head rested on his biceps, tilted uncomfortably upward by the thick, hard muscle. He slid his right arm under her knees to lift her legs.
Marcus slipped his left leg under both of Fidija’s and lowered hers onto his left leg, separating them so that her left leg crossed his just below his knee, while her right leg was near the top of his thigh. Then Marcus whipped his right leg across the top of both Fidija’s legs, crossed his ankles for leverage and squeezed. All this while she was still gasping to try to regain her breath.
Fidija now tried to wriggle and squirm free of his grasp, but it was too late for that. She struggled futilely against his greater strength and the greater leverage his position gave him. Marcus grinned at her helplessness, whispering mocking taunts in her ears. Fidija was deeply dismayed by the fact that this was increasing her arousal, which he saw. He mocked her for that too. She kept answering defiantly, but her heart was less and less in it.
Then Marcus said, in a more normal tone; “You just aren’t trying hard enough, my girl! Perhaps if I gave you some incentive to really strive?”
Marcus started by tickling Fidija’s hips and her groin with a soft, gliding, feathery touch. She simply howled with laughter. Her struggles did indeed double and redouble under this stimulus. Her laughter grew louder and louder. Now, for the first time, she started to beg him to stop.
Marcus’ only reply was to tickle the sides and undersides of her lovely breasts. He again held her eyes with his own as she helplessly laughed. He immensely enjoyed gazing into her eyes at close range as she laughed and squirmed. Now and then Fidija closed her eyes tightly in helpless mirth. Each time she opened them again, there were his, gazing unwavering into hers, clearly enjoying her torment. Somehow, her knowledge that he was enjoying her sweet, ticklish torture increased her arousal still more.
“But you know how to get me to stop, little Fidija. You must submit to me. Say the words. Tell me that you are my slave, tell me that you submit to me. Tell me that you are my property. Tell me that I own you and that you belong to me. And mean every word. If you say the words and don’t mean them, I will know, and you will be punished.” Marcus said, taunting and teasing with his tone of voice, even as his hands kept on teasing and tickling her body.
Now Marcus had decided to move his hands downward to tickle Fidija’s tender inner thighs. He had to change her position. He placed her hands back to back, and drew a broad leather strap from the headboard. It was attached at one end to the wood. Marcus wrapped her hands and wrists in the free end, leaving almost no slack.
Shifting his imprisoning legs down along her trapped ones, he brought his hands within reach of his new intended target. Marcus’ powerful thighs now enwrapped Fidija’s calves. Twisting into a semi seated position, he was able to lean over her.
Now Marcus carried out his intention, and started to tickle Fidija’s inner thighs. She was screaming in laughter and sexual torment. The last twenty minutes had carried her well beyond eager to needing a climax. He now took her, helplessly struggling and laughing, through desperately needing and on up to frantically needing a climax. The note of defenseless desperation in her laughter was unmistakable.
Marcus leaned up and forward over Fidija’s lovely hips to bring himself closer to her sex. With only his two index fingers he reached forward and started to tickle her fully engorged, throbbing labia. This tickled worse than anything! Fidija just threw her head back and howled in sheer hysterical anguish! And oh dear Gods, her need was becoming worse with every stroke! Surely the Gods could not ask her to endure this without giving in?
Marcus noticed the tears gathering in her eyes. The tears overflowed and began to trickle down her smooth cheeks. Mockingly, tauntingly, he kissed the first few away, visibly savoring the taste. The volume of tears grew swiftly. Fidija was close to breaking. As soon as the tears were streaming down from those great big blue eyes, he knew it. He felt sure that his next trick would crush her resistance.
Marcus had noticed the head of Fidija’s clitoris starting to emerge from under the small hood of flesh that normally hid and protected it. He pulled out a small drawer in the headboard of the couch, and from this drawer drew out a tiny brush. The brush had been fashioned by tying a bundle of soft, fluffy Eider down feathers to a short central stick that served as a handle. Marcus had used these on women before, and he knew the effect it would have on Fidija.
Marcus brushed the incredibly soft, incredibly light fronds of the down feathers over the tip of Fidija’s clit. She reacted as though her body had just been struck by a lightning bolt. After totally freezing for a moment, her laughter came out as a wailing, despairing scream!
In between gales of laughter, Fidiga now begged for mercy. She pleaded, she begged, but she would not speak the words of submission! She would not! She refused! But the torment went on and on and on. Marcus was relentless. He was implacable. He knew very well what the terrible tickling was doing to her. She knew that he knew, and she knew he was loving it. That only made it all worse!
Marcus continued to stroke that unbearably sensitive, tiny nubbin of flesh with those wickedly soft eider feathers. How long it went on, neither of them knew. They lost track of time. He was aware that she held out for an amazingly long time against such unbearable torment.
Fidija screamed and screamed. Finally, after what seemed an eternity, the scream came out with the words in it; “No, please! EEEEHAHAHAHA! No more! EEEHAHEEHEE! I submit! HAWHAWHAW! I submit!”
Marcus smiled broadly and paused in his maddening torture of Fidija’s privates; “Of course you do. Now say the rest of the words also little one. Otherwise, I will know you lied about submitting, and your punishment will be hours and hours of tickling.”
With the momentary respite, Fidija recanted her submission and defied him again. Marcus only smiled at her. He drew a two hour glass from the base of the couch, and told her; “Two hours of tickling, at least, for your perfidy.”
He applied the wicked eider fluff to her nipples for a long, long time. Then to the sides and undersides of her breasts. Then to her inner thighs and labia. Soon she was begging and pleading again, but the words that he wanted to hear, the words of submission, did not pass her lips.
The sands in the glass ran out. Grinning happily, Marcus turned it again. Fidija sobbed at the sight, knowing what it meant. But she still would not utter those words. He resumed the unbearable tickle tease.
When the sands were about to run out again, he judged that her sensitive clit had had time to recover from the first round of tickling, and once more applied the tickly fluff to it. Her torment was insupportable. Her face was streaked with the dried tracks of her streams of tears. She was on the brink of passing out. She had been on that brink for some time, being skillfully kept there.
The hourglass emptied again. Marcus reached out and turned it again. Fidija sobbed. It was too much! Too much! She had held out for such a long time, but her endurance was finally exhausted.
Gasping for breath, tearfully, Fidija told Marcus; “I am your slave. I submit to you. I am your property. You own me.” With a wrenching sob; “I belong to you, war chief.”
Still, she would not call him master! But Marcus accepted that. That could come later. For now, he was content with the submission she had made.
“Excellent Fidija. Very good. That sounded very sincere. Now, as I promised, I will consider rewarding you. While I consider, I want you to laugh for me. I may choose to stop tickling. I may not. I may choose to give you an orgasm. I may choose not to. While I consider your fate little pretty slave, laugh for your war chief, for your master.”
Marcus leaned back on the couch now, and resumed tickling Fidija’s belly and sides. He loved how the lightest grazing touch of his fingertips made her roar with wild laughter. Between the guffaws, the girl begged him for mercy. Over and over again she protested that she had submitted, that she was his, and all the rest. All except that one word, master. She would not call him master! She wouldn’t!
Marcus knew Fidija’s arousal was even more of a torment than the tickling.
Insinuatingly, tauntingly, Marcus suggested; “Other than ceasing to tickle you, little one, is there something you would like your master to do for you? Some other need you would like to have met by your war chief?”
“Yes war chief! HAHAHA! Let me cum! HAHAHAHA! PleeheeheeHEEHEEHEEZE!”
“How would you like me to do that, my ticklish little slave girl?”
“HEEEEHEEHEE! Take meeeheeHEEHEEHEE! Take me! HAWHAWHAWHAW!”
“See? I told you that you would ask me, would beg me to take you, Didn’t I?”
“Yehehehehes! Yes war chief! Youhoohoo told meeheehee! Pleheeheeze! I am begging youhoohoooooo! Take me! Hah hah hah HAH HAH HAH!”
“You just keep begging and pleading girl. If I decide to, and when I decide to, I will”
Marcus was fascinated by the way Fidija’s lovely body responded to his touch. He reveled in the texture of her smooth, soft skin under his fingers and palms. He lost all track of time, as she already had. Neither of them could have said if it went on for minutes or hours.
A time came when Fidija stopped begging and pleading. She seemed to accept that she could not affect his actions, that it was all up to him to decide when and if the tickling would stop, when and if she would be allowed to climax.
Marcus said; “Let’s hear that word little Fidija. Let’s hear that word you’ve refused to speak. Adress me as master, and then you might earn a reward. Perhaps not, but maybe.”
Amid sobbing laughter; “Yes HEEEEEEEE hee hee! M,m,m,m master, Please!”
It happened suddenly, taking her by surprise. Marcus released his hold on her, leapt into position between her legs, leaned over her, seized Fidija by the hips and engulfed her throbbing clit with his soft, wet lips and tongue. He stretched his legs out behind him, allowing the weight of his upper body to settle onto her thighs, holding her legs in place.
While his hands resumed tickling her hips, keeping her in hysterical agony, his mouth brought her to orgasm, then to a second and a third. Then he almost gave her a fourth, but stopped at a stage when her need for release was again at it’s highest.
Now Marcus stood up, stepped back and opened and dropped his knee length tunic. He had nothing on underneath. Seeing that masculine body with it’s long, firm erection, Fidija unconsciously licked her lips.
Walking forward again, Marcus released attached a long chain to Fidija’s collar. The other end was fastened to a stout iron ring set in the wooden base of the couch. Once again he joined her on the couch, and began to make love to her.
She no longer thought of resistance. He no longer thought of tickling her. When he kissed her, she kissed back. When he entered her she replied to every thrust in kind. She lost track of how many orgasms she had before he filled her with his own.
After the lovemaking, Marcus sent Fidija to sleep in a nest of furs beside the bed. He informed her that sleeping beside her master was a thing she must earn. But he told her that she could earn that right, he was sure. It belonged to the favorite among his slave girls.
Her last thought before drifting off to sleep was that yes, she really was a slave, but maybe that would not turn out to be so bad. In the morning, when she awoke, her attitude had reverted.
“Just because I yielded to inhuman torture last night, don’t think I’m going to be an obedient little slave from now on!” Fidija greeted Marcus upon his awakening. “Last night you caught me by surprise! From now on, I’ll know what to expect.”
Her chin was set in an attitude of great determination. “You will never hear those humiliating words of submission from my lips again!” She asserted proudly.
Marcus grinned at her. He summoned servants to take her back to the slave quarters. Today he would enjoy more of the Olympic games as an honored spectator, viewing from the champion’s seats. Tonight, he would break this delicious slave again.
He hoped she was right about it not being as easy the second time. He hoped she would continue to recant and take back her submission of the previous night every morning. He had been quite correct; taming this fiery little slave would be great, great fun indeed!
