Before becoming a senator, he was
known as General Arlinus Maximus, a title he cherished very much and considered
much more important than any political nonsense. He remained a military man at
heart and ran his household with an iron fist, using his sword belt to keep
disobedient slaves in line. In fact, despite the current fashion, he always
wore his sword belt over the tunic, not only as a soldier’s habit but as a
constant reminder for his staff. For all but one: his dear sex slave, Giulia.
He bought Giulia at the slave market
in the summer when she turned one and twenty. Dark blonde with a big mouth and narrow
hips, captured in Gaul, a recent widow, spared by the soldiers to fetch a
better price, and barren. The first part Arlinus could see himself; the rest of
the slave merchant’s rap made his mind spin with the possibilities of what
would fit and where, and in what sequence. Arlinus was a man of an admirable
sex appetite with perversions and a toy chest to match, way ahead of his time.
“What’s her name?”
“She calls herself Jools,” the
merchant replied.
“Jules? That’s a man’s name. I will
call her Giulia.”
“But Giulia is a noble name, senator.”
“Are you telling me how to call my
slave?”
The girl’s eyes darted from one man
to another, who were deciding her fate, but they never reached Arlin’s face. Women
from Gaul, besides having a lovely accent, received high praise as more refined
and adventurous in bed, perhaps in the local brothels, because this one seemed
shy and inexperienced. She kept her eyes downcast and blushed at every crude
remark. More fun to break her in!
“Spin around and show me her feet,” Arlinus
asked.
Feet so dirty, he couldn’t see her
toes, speckles of dried-up blood on her legs from walking barefoot, bright red
marks on her wrists from the ropes that she kept scratching, when she didn’t
rub the matching red marks on her thighs. Quite a leper she was, but a
fascinating one. Nothing that hot baths and aromatic oils won’t fix, and then
he will add his own welts to mark her. Note to self: to pick up the rose petal
oil from Persia, she will smell divine while writhing under him or trying to
evade his belt.
“Show me the rest,” requested
Arlinus, and the merchant yanked the filthy fabric that covered the young woman’s
torso to show off his product.
The woman, unaware of the slave
market’s tradition, pulled the fabric back to preserve her modesty, for which
the trader reprimanded her with a whip across her ass.
“No,” motioned Arlinus, “don’t touch
my property.”
“Not yours yet,” scowled the slave
merchant.
“I beg to differ,” smirked Arlinus,
as he handed over the leather bag with coins. “Twenty thousand denarii and my
belt on her arse say she’s mine.”
With that, he unbuckled his sword
belt, upended the befuddled Giulia and bent her over the edge of the platform
she had been showcased on a moment ago. Twelve rapid-fire strikes of the belt covered
whatever fading whip marks she had with twelve angry crimson stripes.
And thus, the education of Giulia had
begun.
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