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Marcius

Marcius

Tribune
The slow warm wind wafted through the open tavern door, carrying the faint strains of martial music from the legionary fortress of Durostorum. Muciana finished cleaning yet another table and paused to wipe the moisture off her forehead. She wanted to quench the thirst with a cup of watered red wine, but she knew well that Dutoboris the tavern-keeper wouldn’t stand for that. Not that early, not on the busiest day of the year.

Muciana looked at two of her fellow barmaids, busy washing the cups, at Dutoboris, a heavyset man in his late forties, his hair greying and retreating, and closed her eyes for a moment. When she opened them Faustus was there, darkening the doorway.

‘Greetings, Dutoboris. Hey girls,’ Faustus strode in. The girls chorused welcome, Dutoboris nodded. ‘Getting ready?’

‘We are, Faustus. What do you want?’ Dutoboris looked at the younger man, half his age, taller and better dressed, with more than a dash of resentment.

‘Who do you want, Faustus?’ one of the barmaids, Dorcas, piped in.

‘Missed me, girl?’ Faustus looked straight into Muciana’s large, dark eyes. Mouthing a vigorous denial, she knew she was lost—that burning desire she had always felt when she was near Faustus was washing over her.

‘I’m off while they are on parade,’ Faustus smiled. ‘I thought I'd drop by and see you before the whole legion comes here to celebrate the eagle’s birthday.’

‘And now that you've seen me, now what?’ Muciana crossed her arms, tattooed in the Thracian manner with wavy lines, deer and stars. In a heartbeat she was aware that the thin fabric of her tunic was now pulled taut over her breasts, so that the outline of her hardened nipples was easily distinguished. Her face flushed.

‘Why don’t we talk everything over in the back?’ Faustus murmured.

‘You shouldn’t be here, lad. And you, silly slut, you know you’re playing with fire,’ Dutoboris snarled at the couple. ‘You’ve been warned to stay away from him, Muciana!’

‘I’m taking a break!’ Muciana flounced past Dutoboris, beckoned Faustus to follow her.

Which he did, while Dutoboris grumbled.

Once the door of an ill-lit back room slammed shut behind them, there wasn’t much talking.

***********​

Waves of pleasure rippled through the body of Muciana. Their sweat-slick bodies slid against each other in a perfect rhythm, every thrust of Faustus eliciting a loud moan from her, drawing her closer to the peak of lust. She clung to him, her long legs wrapped round the backs of his thighs…

Then the door crashed open.

‘What the—’ Faustus pushed off Muciana, who yelped indignantly. ‘What does it mean?’

‘You know it perfectly well, Faustus,’ said the first of two important-looking men entering the room. ‘You’re fucking her again, so—’

‘Bugger off!’ screamed Muciana, frustrated and now terrified.

The man looked at her.

‘On the contrary, girl, it is you who are well and truly buggered—and face-fucked into the bargain. You have been officially warned by the narrow-stripe tribune of the Eleventh to cease carnal relations with this Faustus, and yet you so craved his cock that you gave up your freedom for it.’ The man looked at Faustus. ‘Get dressed, you fucker, you’re coming with us.’

‘As for you, girl,’ the second man told Muciana who cowered on the bed, still naked, ‘you are now summoned before the legate of Eleventh to answer the senatus consultum Claudianum case against you, to be heard tomorrow morning.’

‘You brought it on yourself, you slut,’ Dutoboris hissed from behind the two men. ‘Get dressed, Muciana—tomorrow is tomorrow, today you serve drinks!’

Muciana wept.

TBC
 
Marcius said:
Waves of pleasure rippled through the body of Muciana. Their sweat-slick bodies slid against each other in a perfect rhythm, every thrust of Faustus eliciting a loud moan from her, drawing her closer to the peak of lust. She clung to him, her long legs wrapped round the backs of his thighs…
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Economy of words here ... but maximum impact ... :very_hot:

Marcius said:
‘As for you, girl,’ the second man told Muciana who cowered on the bed, still naked, ‘you are now summoned before the legate of Eleventh to answer the senatus consultum Claudianum case against you, to be heard tomorrow morning.’
Click to expand...

Oh shit! (or whatever other phrase might have been used in that place at that time) :rolleyes:
 
Marcius said:
The Romans (Augustus mostly) passed a lot of laws intended to regulate morality, but the Divine Claudius, the great conqueror of Britain, the one with mush for brains, lent his name to one of the weirder ones.
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I guess she could use a good lawyer-no not Tree.-I didn't see a warrant so this sounds like a Fourth Amendment violation to me. But someone must have tipped off the cops; I doubt they just happened to break down that door randomly. Who's the rat?
 
Marcius said:
'It is worse than a crime, it is a mistake.' (Fouché)
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The law passed by the Emperor Claudius renders a woman who cohabits with a slave a slave herself, but only if she has been warned officially 3 times.
"Most instructive of all was the senatus consultum Claudianum of A.d. 52. This declared that if a free woman cohabited with another's slave and the owner forbade it, the free woman and any child became the slaves of the male slave's owner."
 
‘… having established that even after the warnings the said Muciana knowingly cohabited with Faustus, the slave of Tribune Gnaeus Octavius Proculus, I hereby beseech and request that the said peregrine woman Muciana, or whatever other name she goes under, be acknowledged a slave of the said Tribune Gnaeus Octavius Proculus pursuant to the relevant provisions of senatus consultum Claudianum...’

Menophilus, one of the men who yesterday barged upon Muciana and Faustus, droned on in bad Latin. The Thracian girl stood in front of the tribunal of the legionary legate of XI Claudia hearing her enslavement case.

Muciana’s bleary eyes focused on the young Roman in a magnificent uniform, the bronze of his muscle cuirass gleaming in the sun, whose new possession she was set to become. Octavius Proculus looked twenty, if that.

Muciana knew she was older, even if she wasn’t aware of her exact age. Born Mucasucu of the Crobyzi, she ran away from her native village when her stepfather first made forcing himself upon her a habit, then decided to sell her into slavery so that the family could manage through the lean year. She ended up in Durostorum, where she soon caught the eye of a handsome Italian-born soldier of XI Claudia. She Romanized her name and settled into a life of contubernalis, an unofficial military wife, like many women in the canabae, the civilian settlement next to the legionary fortress.

The winter before last Muciana’s world crashed around her ears when she lost her husband to Sarmatian arrows. There would be no retirement to Mantua. The young woman flung herself into a life of dissolution to drown her sorrows, and soon the whole garrison knew that the leggy waitress at Dutoboris’ tavern was a shameless trollop. Getting drunk and playing the wanton for a whole contubernium of soldiers on a cold Saturnalian night did not help Muciana in living down her reputation either.

The yesterday celebration of the Day of the Eagle ended for Muciana in what could be described best as a repeat performance for several soldiers of XI CLaudia. Now she was terribly hung over and sore down there, which was the usual outcome of trying to ease her anxiety. Moreover, the August sun was making things worse, beating down on her head without mercy.

‘Anything to say, woman?’ The legate looked at dry-heaving and slightly swaying Muciana with scorn.

‘It’s all lies, domine! We didn’t coha-whatever, I swear! That Faustus, he, like, fucked me, that’s all!’ Muciana blurted.

‘Is that all, woman?’

‘Uhh… Like, Faustus buggered me, too!’ Muciana just had to add something. Unfortunately she couldn’t think of anything else to say.

‘That’s enough. Action granted.’

‘What?’

‘Welcome to slavery, Muciana,’ Menophilus whispered, gripping her arm.

(TBC)
 
Many legionaries, no matter how hung over they were from the night before, recognized Muciana when Menophilus was marching her all the way through the legionary camp to the well-appointed residence of the broad-stripe tribune, the second-in-command of XI Claudia. The news of her enslavement must have spread like wildfire, and Muciana’s arrival was met with a torrent of bawdy jokes.

Muciana concentrated on looking straight ahead and putting one foot in front of another. Really, was slavery that bad as people said? Her master was incredibly, filthy rich—all tribunes were—and he was almost a boy! She was certain she would wrap him round her little finger in no time. No more drunken orgies with soldiers—she would be fucking their own dominus. Well, Muciana mused, a fling with a handsome legionary would be easy to set up, given that she would now live in the very heart of the camp… And that Faustus wouldn’t get any, falling into slavery because of his cock was enough!

‘Sit here,’ Menophilus interrupted her reverie, pointing at the log next to the entrance to the tribune’s house. He told the door-keeper to keep an eye on her before slipping inside, but it was superfluous: every legionary passing by stared at her, and a few expressed in no uncertain terms their desire for Muciana to come and sit on their logs.

‘Just you wait!’ Muciana hissed. Her head kept throbbing and screaming at her. She leant back and closed her tired eyes. When she opened them, Octavius Proculus and Menophilus were standing in front of her. Muciana got up on her feet in a hurry.

‘She seems silly and lazy,’ Proculus said, as if she wasn’t there. ‘Menophilus, I think your proposal is wise. Muciana, come!’

In her short life Muciana had never seen such things as were inside the tribune’s house. She had a good look while slaves were relieving Proculus of his cuirass. Everything screamed ‘Money! Big money!’—the furniture, the statuettes, the scrolls, the clothes, the decorations—wait!

The clothes, namely the tunic of yellow silk so sheer its wearer seemed nude, adorned a woman’s body—young, exquisite, pampered body. So did the decorations—golden ear-rings, bracelets and anklets. The beautiful brunette glanced at Muciana with disdain equalling that of the legate.

‘So this is your new slave, Gnaeus,’ the snooty girl said in flawless Attic Greek. ‘A true Thracian wild sow, fit for dirty work and nothing else.’

Muciana’s blood boiled. That was not how Roman wives looked and talked. Some pallake, a concubine-cum-whore, had already wrapped the tribune round her fucking finger!

‘Let’s have a better look, shall we, Agathemeris?’ Proculus pecked the girl on the cheek. ‘Strip!’ That was directed at Muciana.

Muciana listlessly dragged off her tunic so that the tribune and his whore could have a good look at her naked form. It was a young, ripe body, not a body to be ashamed of... even when covered in cold sweat.

‘Gnaeus, my honey, she stinks.’ Agathemeris wrinkled her nose. ‘You, girl! Go clean yourself now.’

‘Wait.’ Proculus started kneading the broad shoulders of Muciana. ‘She’s strong, and there is a certain kind of coarse beauty to her.’ The youth tested the weight of her plump breasts, then playfully flicked her large brown nipples with his fingertips. ‘That paint etched into her skin—she looks like a captive daughter of barbarian chieftain, doesn’t she?’ Proculus chuckled, his eyes fixed on the full, lush lips of his new acquisition. ‘She must properly submit to Rome first. Kneel!’

Her eyes wide, Muciana went down on her knees. Proculus took his tunic off, and the nature of submission required from her became all too clear. She took his bulging manhood in one hand and started pumping it. The cock quivered and rapidly swelled at the touch of her rough fingers—the Roman youth was a big boy.

Cupping his balls, for a heartbeat Muciana thought that she could get away with a hand job. Her stomach kept churning, and she was truly afraid that pleasuring Proculus with her mouth would not end well. However, that Greek she-goat Agathemeris left her little choice, roughly pushing her head into the tribunician crotch.

‘Open your mouth and suck!’ Proculus commanded.

Muciana stuck her tongue out and swirled it round the cock-head, making a wish for Agathemeris to perish evilly, then slipped her lips over Proculus’ shaft. She heard a sharp intake of breath, and Proculus began fucking her face with great vigour, moving her head to suit his pleasure. Muciana gagged and tried to hold back the urge to vomit.

‘Go on, my soul, take this slut like a common whore!’ Agathemeris raised the hem of her tunic and was fingering her slit in abandon, watching his glistening cock run in and out of Muciana’s mouth.

‘I… Aaaghhh!’ Proculus stiffened in release. ‘You, swallow it!’ Muciana felt him twitching, and her mouth was flooded with warm, viscous liquid. She did her best at swallowing but failed to keep up with the flow, and sperm dribbled down her chin and cheeks, spattering her neck and breasts.

Agathemeris moaned her climax as Proculus pulled his softening cock out to wipe it on Muciana’s black hair.

That was when Muciana made her offering to the might of Rome, hurling the contents of her stomach all over Proculus’ legs.

(TBC)
 
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