connoisseurs
Senator
Time for the auction
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The Slave Market
- Thread starter mymartinet
- Start date
connoisseurs
Senator
connoisseurs
Senator
Complaining?View attachment 606060That could be me. Wonder what I did to deserve that?
connoisseurs
Senator
connoisseurs
Senator
Sold
connoisseurs
Senator
Is that Tree without his hat?
theseus
SERVILIS CURATOR
A bit of a fantasy. I might see how it develops. Your comments are welcome.
Julia wanted to cry. She wanted to curl up into a little ball and weep. Weep for her lost family, her lost dignity, her lost virginity, her lost freedom. She wanted to weep for her dead father, her grandmother, her little sister. She wanted to weep for her mother, the gracious aristocratic lady now spreading her pale, aristocratic thighs for copper coins in a barbarian brothel.
But Julia couldn’t weep. She was the daughter of an aristocrat, an Archon, one of the rulers of the lost city. Aristocrats did not show their emotions in front of the masses, in front of the barbarians, no matter how victorious they were. So Julia stood straight and proud. Proud despite the ugly iron collar she wore. Proud despite having her hands bound behind her. Proud despite her dirty, naked body. Proud despite her new status as a slave.
It was hard to believe that no more than two weeks before she had been the carefree, indulged daughter of an Archon, waiting impatiently for her birthday when she would be old enough to be betrothed to her future husband. Unlike many of her friends she was eager for the betrothal. The marriage of an aristocratic girl was always a matter of state, of alliances, a means of cementing power. Often the groom would be much, much older, decades older. Her prospective husband had been less than a decade her senior. A handsome young tribune, someone she liked, admired, perhaps would even grow to love. Like so many in the City he was now a mouldering heap of bones, picked over by crows and rats.
It had all been so sudden! She had been with her mother and sister at a street carnival, watching a little red-haired tumbler doing the most amazing stunts, when there had been a roar and the clash of arms as the barbarians burst through the lightly guarded main gate. They had fled to their house, where a few faithful slaves had tried, unsuccessfully, to barricade the doors. They were the lucky ones! They had died, swiftly and bloodily.
The barbarians had stormed into the house, a house soon filled with screams of despair and shouts of passion as the barbarians took their pleasure! She had fought, drawing blood with her nails, but it had been in vain. Her tunic was ripped from her body, strong hands spread her thighs!
The barbarian stank! He stank of sweat and the filth of the long unwashed. He stank of fresh blood and gore. The metal scales of his armour cut into her chest as he plunged himself into her. Her virginity, that precious jewel that was to be guarded until it served to seal a political alliance, was gone. That was only the first rape! There were many more! No woman was spared, not her grandmother, nor the old crone who had been her nurse, not her mother, or the young slave girls, not even her sister.
She had screamed, begged for mercy. Screamed even louder when one of them had turned her over, coarse fingers parting her cheeks, forcing himself into the narrow opening. Finally they were sated, their lust satisfied, if only temporarily.
The surviving women were bound, to be divided as part of the spoils. Iron collars were riveted around their throats. She and two others were bound to their new owner’s saddle, to run beside his horse, or be dragged to their deaths if they did not. Day after day she ran. At night the rapes were repeated. Many, many times, in every way possible. Finally the survivors had been led to this slave market.
Her mother’s new owner had soon sold her to a brothel keeper, in exchange for several jars of wine. Slaves were cheap now, a glut on the market.
Julia tried to ignore the hands that touched her, the fingers that probed her most private places. She would not give them the satisfaction of reacting. She was proud! The daughter of an aristocrat! A naked slave girl.
Julia wanted to cry. She wanted to curl up into a little ball and weep. Weep for her lost family, her lost dignity, her lost virginity, her lost freedom. She wanted to weep for her dead father, her grandmother, her little sister. She wanted to weep for her mother, the gracious aristocratic lady now spreading her pale, aristocratic thighs for copper coins in a barbarian brothel.
But Julia couldn’t weep. She was the daughter of an aristocrat, an Archon, one of the rulers of the lost city. Aristocrats did not show their emotions in front of the masses, in front of the barbarians, no matter how victorious they were. So Julia stood straight and proud. Proud despite the ugly iron collar she wore. Proud despite having her hands bound behind her. Proud despite her dirty, naked body. Proud despite her new status as a slave.
It was hard to believe that no more than two weeks before she had been the carefree, indulged daughter of an Archon, waiting impatiently for her birthday when she would be old enough to be betrothed to her future husband. Unlike many of her friends she was eager for the betrothal. The marriage of an aristocratic girl was always a matter of state, of alliances, a means of cementing power. Often the groom would be much, much older, decades older. Her prospective husband had been less than a decade her senior. A handsome young tribune, someone she liked, admired, perhaps would even grow to love. Like so many in the City he was now a mouldering heap of bones, picked over by crows and rats.
It had all been so sudden! She had been with her mother and sister at a street carnival, watching a little red-haired tumbler doing the most amazing stunts, when there had been a roar and the clash of arms as the barbarians burst through the lightly guarded main gate. They had fled to their house, where a few faithful slaves had tried, unsuccessfully, to barricade the doors. They were the lucky ones! They had died, swiftly and bloodily.
The barbarians had stormed into the house, a house soon filled with screams of despair and shouts of passion as the barbarians took their pleasure! She had fought, drawing blood with her nails, but it had been in vain. Her tunic was ripped from her body, strong hands spread her thighs!
The barbarian stank! He stank of sweat and the filth of the long unwashed. He stank of fresh blood and gore. The metal scales of his armour cut into her chest as he plunged himself into her. Her virginity, that precious jewel that was to be guarded until it served to seal a political alliance, was gone. That was only the first rape! There were many more! No woman was spared, not her grandmother, nor the old crone who had been her nurse, not her mother, or the young slave girls, not even her sister.
She had screamed, begged for mercy. Screamed even louder when one of them had turned her over, coarse fingers parting her cheeks, forcing himself into the narrow opening. Finally they were sated, their lust satisfied, if only temporarily.
The surviving women were bound, to be divided as part of the spoils. Iron collars were riveted around their throats. She and two others were bound to their new owner’s saddle, to run beside his horse, or be dragged to their deaths if they did not. Day after day she ran. At night the rapes were repeated. Many, many times, in every way possible. Finally the survivors had been led to this slave market.
Her mother’s new owner had soon sold her to a brothel keeper, in exchange for several jars of wine. Slaves were cheap now, a glut on the market.
Julia tried to ignore the hands that touched her, the fingers that probed her most private places. She would not give them the satisfaction of reacting. She was proud! The daughter of an aristocrat! A naked slave girl.
That was very well written .. an economy of words .. so many images ... nicely plotted ... really quite good!
Crux-Emperor Baracus X
Rectidolor
She wants it...
windar
Teller of Tales
A picture flipped on its side is realistic, Moore?
windar
Teller of Tales
That will certainly make my ass smart!Smartass !!!
Unflipped it is realistic. Not nearly as tittilating as this old National Geographic panting, nor the render from a Gorean fan site, but still a nice find, Baracus.
Attachments
windar
Teller of Tales
panting? Was that a Freudian slip?
