cxslave
Chain Slave
I feel exactly the same! Luna made me feel like I was chained right next to her!
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Amica
- Thread starter Velut Luna
- Start date
Velut Luna
Sibilla Cumana
It is not easy to convey their feelings, especially when using a foreign language, but the help of Eulalia
is the best you can have in order to succeed in this difficult undertaking.
And Eulalia has a very important role in this story!
You can see in the next chapters.
is the best you can have in order to succeed in this difficult undertaking.And Eulalia has a very important role in this story!
You can see in the next chapters.
It is not easy to convey their feelings, especially when using a foreign language, but the help of Eulalia
And Eulalia has a very important role in this story!
cxslave
Chain Slave
You write as if English was your mother tongue! I can't even speak a foreign language let alone try to write a story like this! You are amazing and I can't wait for more!It is not easy to convey their feelings, especially when using a foreign language, but the help of Eulalia
And Eulalia has a very important role in this story!
Velut Luna
Sibilla Cumana
I'm writing my story in Italian, after translate it in English, but is a very rough,You write as if English was your mother tongue! I can't even speak a foreign language let alone try to write a story like this! You are amazing and I can't wait for more!
Eulalia make it in perfect English!
Velut Luna
Sibilla Cumana
AD ASTRA PER ASPERA.
Velut Luna
Sibilla Cumana
Amica 4
It 's the end of the voyage! While the ship’s docked and moored with strong ropes to big mushroom-shaped stones, I’m seized with trembling and shame. I try to hide my nakedness from the eyes of the people crowded on the quay. Udij, the black girl who’s been shackled with me throughout the voyage is running her fingers through my hair, trying to comb my silvery, tangled, locks. Every other girl has got a small rag or a scrap of animal skin that she can use to cover her shame, only I am completely naked - just a little patch of blonde pubic hair, but even that doesn’t hide my little furrow.
Udij is beautiful, a perfect statue with shiny ebony skin. She’s wearing around her waist a coloured skin, with shiny scales that glimmer with her every change of posture. Down over her pubes hangs what looks like a head with open jaws, it’s dreadful even if the animal it belonged to is dead (it's the skin of an Egyptian cobra).
The Phoenician merchant looks at me and shakes his head, as if to signify that I can’t be put on display simply naked as I am. He signals to a sailor to bring a piece of rope and some sailcloth. Udij enwraps my hips with the fabric, and with the rope she forms a belt that she ties on one side, looking at me as if I were wearing the most beautiful wedding dress. She takes a thin cord and, picking at the top of my head, knots it around my hair to form a ponytail. She looks at me, turns me around, and smiles as if to say 'you're just so beautiful!'
The other girls are gorgeous, they have perfect bodies, each one of them a different skin colour from the others, each from a different, distant land. Their faces, hair, stature, and the proportions of their bodies all indicate different races. We're a collection of valuable slaves to be sold to those who have enough money to win these works of art of nature.
Other slaves come out from the hold of the Phoenician galley, less glamorous, completely naked, their hair dishevelled, with ropes tied round their wrists, ankles and necks. They are made to go ashore down a wooden gangway, lined up with their backs against the harbour wall, among the stalls where fishermen sell their fish.
There are crowds of eager buyers, the merchant advertises their merits, fondling their breasts, squeezing them to show they’re firm, turning them around and groping their buttocks to show that they aren’t flabby, opening their mouths to show healthy teeth.
Hands are raised, fingers signalling numbers, prices, bids. The merchant keeps shaking his head, he doesn’t think the bids are sufficient. New offers come, bags of coins change hands, the Phoenician mariners untie now one, now another of the slaves.
As each is sold, auctioned off to the highest bidder, she looks lost, her eyes full of tears, saying sad goodbyes to her friends who have shared the narrow space of the hold. Leaving the galley for an unknown destiny means losing the security that sad prison assured.
Masters now control the high-quality human flesh they’re leading away. We’re still on the ship, a different fate awaits us. We're very precious, we can’t be sold in the fish-market on the quay at Oplontis.
It 's the end of the voyage! While the ship’s docked and moored with strong ropes to big mushroom-shaped stones, I’m seized with trembling and shame. I try to hide my nakedness from the eyes of the people crowded on the quay. Udij, the black girl who’s been shackled with me throughout the voyage is running her fingers through my hair, trying to comb my silvery, tangled, locks. Every other girl has got a small rag or a scrap of animal skin that she can use to cover her shame, only I am completely naked - just a little patch of blonde pubic hair, but even that doesn’t hide my little furrow.
Udij is beautiful, a perfect statue with shiny ebony skin. She’s wearing around her waist a coloured skin, with shiny scales that glimmer with her every change of posture. Down over her pubes hangs what looks like a head with open jaws, it’s dreadful even if the animal it belonged to is dead (it's the skin of an Egyptian cobra).
The Phoenician merchant looks at me and shakes his head, as if to signify that I can’t be put on display simply naked as I am. He signals to a sailor to bring a piece of rope and some sailcloth. Udij enwraps my hips with the fabric, and with the rope she forms a belt that she ties on one side, looking at me as if I were wearing the most beautiful wedding dress. She takes a thin cord and, picking at the top of my head, knots it around my hair to form a ponytail. She looks at me, turns me around, and smiles as if to say 'you're just so beautiful!'
The other girls are gorgeous, they have perfect bodies, each one of them a different skin colour from the others, each from a different, distant land. Their faces, hair, stature, and the proportions of their bodies all indicate different races. We're a collection of valuable slaves to be sold to those who have enough money to win these works of art of nature.
Other slaves come out from the hold of the Phoenician galley, less glamorous, completely naked, their hair dishevelled, with ropes tied round their wrists, ankles and necks. They are made to go ashore down a wooden gangway, lined up with their backs against the harbour wall, among the stalls where fishermen sell their fish.
There are crowds of eager buyers, the merchant advertises their merits, fondling their breasts, squeezing them to show they’re firm, turning them around and groping their buttocks to show that they aren’t flabby, opening their mouths to show healthy teeth.
Hands are raised, fingers signalling numbers, prices, bids. The merchant keeps shaking his head, he doesn’t think the bids are sufficient. New offers come, bags of coins change hands, the Phoenician mariners untie now one, now another of the slaves.
As each is sold, auctioned off to the highest bidder, she looks lost, her eyes full of tears, saying sad goodbyes to her friends who have shared the narrow space of the hold. Leaving the galley for an unknown destiny means losing the security that sad prison assured.
Masters now control the high-quality human flesh they’re leading away. We’re still on the ship, a different fate awaits us. We're very precious, we can’t be sold in the fish-market on the quay at Oplontis.
Velut Luna
Sibilla Cumana
The name (Egyptian) of the black girl (she is from Nubia): Udij is a short form of Uadij(e)t meaning: mythical goddess Cobra.
For that reason she wear a skin of an Egyptian cobra with the head of the snake hiding her pubis.
For that reason she wear a skin of an Egyptian cobra with the head of the snake hiding her pubis.
Velut Luna
Sibilla Cumana
Amica 5
A group of Roman soldiers arrives at the port, their commander on a black horse, with a great chariot drawn by four horses.
The Phoenician merchant delegates to the senior sailor the task of completing the sale of the remaining, unsold slaves. We go down the wooden gangway to mount on the carriage. We hug each other to protect ourselves from the gaze of the crowd that’s gathered to admire our beauty. The Phoenician merchant takes his place on the carriage with us. The soldiers keep back those who’d like to finger our bodies - look, but don’t touch!
The convoy sets off through the city of Oplontis. There are well-built houses, it’s not a poor fishing village, shops, taverns. As we passed people turn and admire us. Then we leave the port, heading away from the sea, along a street cobbled with blackish stones. The carriage proceeds along the short distance that separates Oplontis from Pompeii, a city surrounded by battlemented walls with towers.
Through the great arched gateway facing towards the sea come ox-hauled wagons laden with merchandise, people, animals, farmers with handcarts bringing their produce to market, multi-storey houses, colonnades, temples, and a great square overlooked by magnificent palaces with columns and statues.
Everywhere there are people dressed in tunics and cloaks. There are women, children playing, merchants, slaves. I’m kept stunned and overwhelmed by the wealth that shines from this place, even if a certain uneasiness, anxiety, tightens my breath.
I cannot help but compare it with my poor village, destroyed by fire, with the palace of my father from which I was kidnapped. It was a wooden building with stone foundations, the fire consumed it in less than half a day.
Memories crowd through my mind, including the tragic fate that the priestess predicted for me just before she died, as she entrusted me with the task of taking over her duties in the little temple dedicated to the moon. But here, one of the temples could hold four of our villages.
And building’s still going on. At the far end of the square, the Forum as it’s called by some of the girls who know the language of this land, stands a temple of colossal dimensions, the Basilica, they say. Slaves climb ladders with loads of hewn stone, machines such as I’ve never seen raise beams, columns and statues. There are labourers and masons everywhere, orders being shouted.
A strange, paralysing sense of panic comes over me. This isn’t all entirely new building, they seem to be repairing these structures. I’m aware of seeing ruined houses in the side streets, from which slaves are prising away stones and loading them on wagons.
I don’t understand why there are these ruins in a city that seems so perfect, where business is bustling, where people live – it seems – so happily. There are the traders in their shops, the merchants and craftsmen in their workshops, where men, women and slaves come and go, carrying away the goods they’ve just purchased. In the taverns patrons eat and drink. There’s the aroma of bread baking, of food cooking - I want some food, on the ship they just gave us some small fish roasted on the fire, bread hard as a stone that you had to hold in the mouth for a long time before you could chew it, salty broth in which floated a few bits of vegetables, some sort of sea-snails, and some kind of shells from which we had to gnaw away the flesh. The merchant told us that as we were sitting or lying down all the time in the ship we didn’t need to eat too much, we’d have risked getting fat through not doing enough work!
A group of Roman soldiers arrives at the port, their commander on a black horse, with a great chariot drawn by four horses.
The Phoenician merchant delegates to the senior sailor the task of completing the sale of the remaining, unsold slaves. We go down the wooden gangway to mount on the carriage. We hug each other to protect ourselves from the gaze of the crowd that’s gathered to admire our beauty. The Phoenician merchant takes his place on the carriage with us. The soldiers keep back those who’d like to finger our bodies - look, but don’t touch!
The convoy sets off through the city of Oplontis. There are well-built houses, it’s not a poor fishing village, shops, taverns. As we passed people turn and admire us. Then we leave the port, heading away from the sea, along a street cobbled with blackish stones. The carriage proceeds along the short distance that separates Oplontis from Pompeii, a city surrounded by battlemented walls with towers.
Through the great arched gateway facing towards the sea come ox-hauled wagons laden with merchandise, people, animals, farmers with handcarts bringing their produce to market, multi-storey houses, colonnades, temples, and a great square overlooked by magnificent palaces with columns and statues.
Everywhere there are people dressed in tunics and cloaks. There are women, children playing, merchants, slaves. I’m kept stunned and overwhelmed by the wealth that shines from this place, even if a certain uneasiness, anxiety, tightens my breath.
I cannot help but compare it with my poor village, destroyed by fire, with the palace of my father from which I was kidnapped. It was a wooden building with stone foundations, the fire consumed it in less than half a day.
Memories crowd through my mind, including the tragic fate that the priestess predicted for me just before she died, as she entrusted me with the task of taking over her duties in the little temple dedicated to the moon. But here, one of the temples could hold four of our villages.
And building’s still going on. At the far end of the square, the Forum as it’s called by some of the girls who know the language of this land, stands a temple of colossal dimensions, the Basilica, they say. Slaves climb ladders with loads of hewn stone, machines such as I’ve never seen raise beams, columns and statues. There are labourers and masons everywhere, orders being shouted.
A strange, paralysing sense of panic comes over me. This isn’t all entirely new building, they seem to be repairing these structures. I’m aware of seeing ruined houses in the side streets, from which slaves are prising away stones and loading them on wagons.
I don’t understand why there are these ruins in a city that seems so perfect, where business is bustling, where people live – it seems – so happily. There are the traders in their shops, the merchants and craftsmen in their workshops, where men, women and slaves come and go, carrying away the goods they’ve just purchased. In the taverns patrons eat and drink. There’s the aroma of bread baking, of food cooking - I want some food, on the ship they just gave us some small fish roasted on the fire, bread hard as a stone that you had to hold in the mouth for a long time before you could chew it, salty broth in which floated a few bits of vegetables, some sort of sea-snails, and some kind of shells from which we had to gnaw away the flesh. The merchant told us that as we were sitting or lying down all the time in the ship we didn’t need to eat too much, we’d have risked getting fat through not doing enough work!
)
Velut Luna
Sibilla Cumana
Amica 6
It's horrible. Hunger, like an animal, a snake that lives inside me. If I don't feed it consumes me from inside, it eats me away me, it digests my bowels. I’m suffering, sniffing the air filled with a dense aroma of hot sweet pancakes, wine, fried fish, from the maze of alleys waft out all the scents, colours, tastes, sounds of this whole new world. Hunger would feed on anything, even an empty clam shell, rind off a fruit, a crust of dry bread, a bare bone, even the smell of a cooked food!
Passing along the entire length of the Forum, our wagon takes the lane to the right of the great temple that occupies the entire width of the square, and passes the columns of the entry arch of the Forum. We ride along another stretch of well-paved road, then arrive at a small temple where we turn right onto a very long street. At the second crossing, we turn left, and stop. The Phoenician merchant enters the building through a door with a pair of columns at the sides, not the main entrance of the building, we seem to have passed that just before turning.
Curious folk stop on the roadway to admire the beauty of the new slaves. The merchant comes out of the house followed by several servants. A little jump and we land there, huddled in a small group of girls from the farthest places, dazzled by the splendour of houses, the majesty of the buildings, by the straight, paved streets. Overwhelmed, we perceive clearly that we are at the bottom rung of the beings that live in this city, but we are women or animals? And what is the price of human flesh here? How much is our skin worth?
We cross the threshold of what will be our prison, and immediately we are stripped of the few rags that covered our nakedness, untied from the ropes that have joined us together to prevent any attempt at escaping, and conducted into a room where, in the centre, is a large tank. Each of us is given a bag that seems to be full of pebbles. We descend some steps and plunge into warm water.
Some slaves, using gestures and words, indicate the use of the strange things. Udij takes me by the hand, she probably understands the language spoken here. With her cupped hands she lifts up water and pours it over my head and body. Then she rubs the bag on my skin. I imitate her, it seems almost a game. The canvas becomes frothy, giving out a delicate fragrance, my skin is cleansed, becoming softer. Other girls who already know this game are happy and laughing as they fondle each other’s beautiful bodies, their variously coloured skins, rubbing their breasts, between their legs, between their buttocks, their legs and their feet.
At one end of the bath, we pass under a shower that pours out from the mouth of a stone animal set into the back wall of the room. We collect water in our mouths, copying one another. Other slaves give us some pointed leaves to chew, and then spit into a bowl where water is pouring all the time. These leaves have a good taste, they leave in your mouth an intense, fresh, aftertaste.
Finally they drop scented oil onto our hands, heads and bodies. We massage each other, our skin is feeling clean and fresh. Substances that enter our bodies giving a pleasing vigour to our muscles.
I am surprised that we slaves are treated in such a respectful way. Soon I will understand that this is the will of our Master, he does not tolerate his slaves being dirty, nor does he tolerate the strong smell of sweat, nor the smell of a mouth is not perfectly clean.
Now we are lined up next to each other in a large hall whose roof is open in the centre, supported by four columns. We await the coming of the lord. We look wonderful, all of us like beautiful young goddesses, our moist skin covered with fragrant oil reflecting the light in a thousand shades, a thousand flashes at the slightest movement. Our wet hair, perfumed, is collected tied up on top of our heads.
Preceded by a procession of slaves and servants, finally the Master arrives. We are commanded to fall on our knees as a sign of greeting and submission. Then comes the Mistress, preceded by her slaves, she is dressed in a beautiful gown of gossamer fabric, an opaque veil, covered with jewels shining among the hair, woven in a network of gold. Her eyes are marked with pink gold and dark lines. Her slaves, as well as those of the Master, are topless, and are wearing colorful jewellery around their arms.
The Master is a man of athletic poise, although a little heavy for his age and certainly well fed. He is clean-shaven, short haired, his hands well manicured but strong. He looks with satisfaction at the ranks of his new slaves, the Phoenician merchant begins what appears to be a recital of the merits of his goods, but he is promptly silenced by a sharp gesture of the master, who approaches the first of us, has her stand up, looks at her face, eyes, hair, paw her breasts and buttocks, evaluates the width of her hips, the tone in the muscles of her arms and legs. He looks at the profiled curve of her back, her shoulders, the form of her pelvis, the curve of her abdomen. He opens her mouth and with a silver spatula he lowers her tongue, inspecting the gloss of her teeth.
So he does with one after the other of us, examining face, breasts, buttocks, back, legs, mouth. Now it's my turn. He touches my silver-blonde hair, looks in my eyes as blue as the sea, evaluates my profile, my lips, my mouth. His hands completely enclose my small breasts, his gentle caress excites the swollen areoles. He puts his hands on my hips and my buttocks. My legs look slender, my pelvis well formed, although tight, my teeth healthy. He seems a little disappointed, perhaps at my too immature development.
He looks quizzically at the Phoenician merchant and says a few words, the merchant responds by saying: 'Virgo, virgo inviolata!' Surprised, he nods to a beautiful slavegirl who is standing at his left, her oblique slanting eyes, the perfect profile of her nose, convey something sensual and defiant in the icon's delicate features; her hair is pulled back in a complicated black bun.
You approach me, gently caressing the bare skin between my thighs, the hill of my pubis, parting my legs gently, and slowly opening the rosy gate of flesh,
'She is like a child ', you say, slowly turning finger inside my treasure chest.
It's horrible. Hunger, like an animal, a snake that lives inside me. If I don't feed it consumes me from inside, it eats me away me, it digests my bowels. I’m suffering, sniffing the air filled with a dense aroma of hot sweet pancakes, wine, fried fish, from the maze of alleys waft out all the scents, colours, tastes, sounds of this whole new world. Hunger would feed on anything, even an empty clam shell, rind off a fruit, a crust of dry bread, a bare bone, even the smell of a cooked food!
Passing along the entire length of the Forum, our wagon takes the lane to the right of the great temple that occupies the entire width of the square, and passes the columns of the entry arch of the Forum. We ride along another stretch of well-paved road, then arrive at a small temple where we turn right onto a very long street. At the second crossing, we turn left, and stop. The Phoenician merchant enters the building through a door with a pair of columns at the sides, not the main entrance of the building, we seem to have passed that just before turning.
Curious folk stop on the roadway to admire the beauty of the new slaves. The merchant comes out of the house followed by several servants. A little jump and we land there, huddled in a small group of girls from the farthest places, dazzled by the splendour of houses, the majesty of the buildings, by the straight, paved streets. Overwhelmed, we perceive clearly that we are at the bottom rung of the beings that live in this city, but we are women or animals? And what is the price of human flesh here? How much is our skin worth?
We cross the threshold of what will be our prison, and immediately we are stripped of the few rags that covered our nakedness, untied from the ropes that have joined us together to prevent any attempt at escaping, and conducted into a room where, in the centre, is a large tank. Each of us is given a bag that seems to be full of pebbles. We descend some steps and plunge into warm water.
Some slaves, using gestures and words, indicate the use of the strange things. Udij takes me by the hand, she probably understands the language spoken here. With her cupped hands she lifts up water and pours it over my head and body. Then she rubs the bag on my skin. I imitate her, it seems almost a game. The canvas becomes frothy, giving out a delicate fragrance, my skin is cleansed, becoming softer. Other girls who already know this game are happy and laughing as they fondle each other’s beautiful bodies, their variously coloured skins, rubbing their breasts, between their legs, between their buttocks, their legs and their feet.
At one end of the bath, we pass under a shower that pours out from the mouth of a stone animal set into the back wall of the room. We collect water in our mouths, copying one another. Other slaves give us some pointed leaves to chew, and then spit into a bowl where water is pouring all the time. These leaves have a good taste, they leave in your mouth an intense, fresh, aftertaste.
Finally they drop scented oil onto our hands, heads and bodies. We massage each other, our skin is feeling clean and fresh. Substances that enter our bodies giving a pleasing vigour to our muscles.
I am surprised that we slaves are treated in such a respectful way. Soon I will understand that this is the will of our Master, he does not tolerate his slaves being dirty, nor does he tolerate the strong smell of sweat, nor the smell of a mouth is not perfectly clean.
Now we are lined up next to each other in a large hall whose roof is open in the centre, supported by four columns. We await the coming of the lord. We look wonderful, all of us like beautiful young goddesses, our moist skin covered with fragrant oil reflecting the light in a thousand shades, a thousand flashes at the slightest movement. Our wet hair, perfumed, is collected tied up on top of our heads.
Preceded by a procession of slaves and servants, finally the Master arrives. We are commanded to fall on our knees as a sign of greeting and submission. Then comes the Mistress, preceded by her slaves, she is dressed in a beautiful gown of gossamer fabric, an opaque veil, covered with jewels shining among the hair, woven in a network of gold. Her eyes are marked with pink gold and dark lines. Her slaves, as well as those of the Master, are topless, and are wearing colorful jewellery around their arms.
The Master is a man of athletic poise, although a little heavy for his age and certainly well fed. He is clean-shaven, short haired, his hands well manicured but strong. He looks with satisfaction at the ranks of his new slaves, the Phoenician merchant begins what appears to be a recital of the merits of his goods, but he is promptly silenced by a sharp gesture of the master, who approaches the first of us, has her stand up, looks at her face, eyes, hair, paw her breasts and buttocks, evaluates the width of her hips, the tone in the muscles of her arms and legs. He looks at the profiled curve of her back, her shoulders, the form of her pelvis, the curve of her abdomen. He opens her mouth and with a silver spatula he lowers her tongue, inspecting the gloss of her teeth.
So he does with one after the other of us, examining face, breasts, buttocks, back, legs, mouth. Now it's my turn. He touches my silver-blonde hair, looks in my eyes as blue as the sea, evaluates my profile, my lips, my mouth. His hands completely enclose my small breasts, his gentle caress excites the swollen areoles. He puts his hands on my hips and my buttocks. My legs look slender, my pelvis well formed, although tight, my teeth healthy. He seems a little disappointed, perhaps at my too immature development.
He looks quizzically at the Phoenician merchant and says a few words, the merchant responds by saying: 'Virgo, virgo inviolata!' Surprised, he nods to a beautiful slavegirl who is standing at his left, her oblique slanting eyes, the perfect profile of her nose, convey something sensual and defiant in the icon's delicate features; her hair is pulled back in a complicated black bun.
You approach me, gently caressing the bare skin between my thighs, the hill of my pubis, parting my legs gently, and slowly opening the rosy gate of flesh,
'She is like a child ', you say, slowly turning finger inside my treasure chest.
RacingRodent
Consul
Well...that...was...intimate...
Excellently written, the hunger passage made me feel it and I had just eaten the description of the baths and the final examination captured all of the senses and all of the emotions. Breathtaking Luna, quite breathtaking.
Excellently written, the hunger passage made me feel it and I had just eaten
the description of the baths and the final examination captured all of the senses and all of the emotions. Breathtaking Luna, quite breathtaking.
Velut Luna
Sibilla Cumana
cxslave
Chain Slave
I have to agree! It really drove home how she and the other slaves were being examined as potential property and how that made her feel. It's just brilliant on every level! Thanks Luna for writing and Eul for proof reading!