The General's Virgin Slave (4 page)

"Bring her to dine with me," Marcus
said firmly, "when she is bathed and the primitive paste scrubbed
off." The woman glared at him and he saw the fire in her eyes. She
would fight him every step of the way. But he had to admit, he
found that fire comely. A welcome challenge. "Fetch a collar," he
muttered, still holding her wrist while she squirmed on the other
end of his strong reach.

The slave-master obeyed at once,
enclosing the new girl's neck in a padded bronze collar with a
chain attached. It was not truly necessary to keep her locked in
it, for he had no fear of her managing an escape— the collar was
more for show than anything— but it subdued her for a while,
rendered her silent at last.

"Behave as a good slave should,"
Marcus advised, softening his voice as best he could, running a
finger down her crumbling, blue cheek, "and you will be very well
rewarded, with good food, wine, a warm bed and all manner of treats
such as you never imagined." Then he held her chin between his
thumb and forefinger, lifting it so that her eyes met his. "And I
don't just mean the blessings that will come from servicing my
cock."

Her lips pursed. Flakes of dry woad
dropped off her cheeks, revealing an exasperated blush beneath.
Delicate skin, not coarse and sallow. Marcus felt his eagerness
grow.

"But," he added, terse, "disobey,
displease me, and you will be punished, virgin or nay."

Still she glared, mouth puckered
tight. He wanted to kiss those sulking, rebellious lips, but that
would wait too. She did not deserve it yet. Marcus gestured for the
slave-master to take her away on her chain. He'd spent enough time
on her already. She was only a woman.

He was soaked through from the rain
and so hungry his stomach hurt. Still the day had turned out better
than it began several hours ago. The rebels were successfully
stopped. For now.

And Marcus had a new pet to lift his
mood.

He walked through the atrium, helmet
under one arm, and thought again of the sun he missed, the home and
family so far away. It was true, it seemed, that absence made the
heart grow fonder, for if he could go back there today and feel the
sun on his shoulders he would even tolerate his mother's endless
attempts to find him a bride.

Although he'd reminded her, many
times, that he could not take a wife while he remained a soldier,
his loving mother had an uncanny ability to fall deaf to his
protests.

"A soldier must serve twenty-five
years," he had reminded her the last time he was home. "When I
retire I will have my own plot of land from the Emperor. You shall
be proud of me then."

"But you will be forty," she moped,
gazing up at him forlornly. "I may not live to see your children
born."

He hated to break the news to her, but
he wasn't sure he ever would marry. His brothers could fulfill that
need for her, but Marcus saw no need for it. Why should he commit
himself to one pussy when there were so many he could serve with
his magnificence? He had a bed slave for every night of the month—
not that he used them as often as he should, especially lately. But
it was what folk expected of Marcus Cassius the Invincible. He had
a reputation to maintain and he had no intention of putting himself
out to grass yet. So the last time he saw his mother he had
pacified her as best he could. "You will live to a fine old age,
and I'll still be capable of giving you grandchildren at forty,
fifty or sixty, worry not."

"What if you do not come back? What
if—"

"Madre, I am invincible. You know
that." And then he would smile cockily and complain of hunger,
making her worries turn to his stomach and what she could feed him
with immediately.

Marcus Cassius the Invincible. Made so
by his mother's cooking. Certainly, she must put something in her
recipes that made him grow tall and strong. The army took him at
the age of fifteen because of his size and strength. By twenty he
made Centurion, by twenty-three he was a Centurion Cohort. He made
Primus Pilate three years ago at only twenty-seven. He had ten more
years yet to serve, but his career had been fast-moving, taking him
from one end of the empire to the other— now to this gloomy
outpost, Britannia.

Marcus Cassius was one of the most
trusted, respected, capable commanders in the Emperor's army. He
had earned a reputation for being ruthless, relentless. Of never
giving up.

But today, while caught in the midst
of a gloomy mood, he had let a small woman with pink toenails and
no pubic hair hold him at bay with one word.

Virgin.

Good thing no one else had witnessed
that, he thought, bemused. His mother would say he wasn't eating
enough.

When he strolled out to his bath,
slaves were waiting to unbuckle his cuirass and then his shin
guards. He slipped off his padded leather vest, his sandals and
finally his linen tunic. At once two female slaves came forward to
join him in his bath, but he waved them off.

He would save himself for his virgin,
Marcus thought with a wry smile, as she had saved herself. For
him.

* * * *

She was scrubbed from head to toe,
steamed like a lobster, doused in cool, scented water and then
rubbed dry with towels. Hands were all over her and she could not
defend herself from the prying. Young women washed, combed and
braided her hair with thin gold thread. Their work was overseen by
a stout, handsome, older woman with a forbidding frown. She
inspected Amanda with stern curiosity, looking into every nook and
cranny.

"Where are you from, girl?"

"You wouldn't even believe it," she
muttered in reply, backing away from the woman's prying
fingers.

"I see. You are fortunate, girl, the
general has given the command that you should not be whipped. He
wishes to keep your skin preserved. Otherwise you would be dealt a
punishment for answering me in such a fashion."

"I didn't mean to be rude. It's just
that...really...you wouldn't believe it."

The woman's eyes narrowed. "You are
not from this island, I know that."

"Oh, but I am. Just not from this
time."

This comment was ignored.
"I know you are not native to this land, girl, because
I
am."

Amanda was intrigued. Was this woman
one of the Iceni or some other tribe? She had read extensively
about the Roman invasion and how some of the natives gave up
fighting and adjusted to the culture of their conquerors. "So now
you work for the Romans. Doesn't that make you a traitor to your
own people?"

For that she received a hard slap
across the face. "The Romans have been good for this country. They
have brought civilization and wealth to the land."

"While slaughtering and raping the
native people."

"They have brought peace. I am proud
to serve General Marcus Cassius." The woman brought her hand up
again for another slap, but suddenly the old man who was apparently
the master of slaves appeared through an arch.

"What are you doing, woman?" he
barked. "You know the general's orders."

The heavy-handed face-slapper backed
away, muttering sourly, "She is a spy, I have no doubt. She as much
as admitted it to me just now. She must have been sent here by one
of the warring tribes to cause trouble. The master will need eyes
in the back of his head with her. She is mouthy, insolent and
speaks out against the Romans. She will betray him."

"Enough, Julia. Your opinion is not
sought. Lay a cross hand upon her again and I shall inform the
general."

The other young female slaves had
clustered around Amanda, whispering to each other, but now the
woman, Julia, clicked her fingers and they followed her out with
their heads bowed.

"Thank you," she said to the old man,
as she rubbed her cheek.

He looked at her with misty eyes and
sniffed. "Do not thank me, slave. Thank the general who decreed you
were not to be hurt or marked." He gestured for her to follow him
into another chamber and she went slowly.

"I am not a spy for any tribe," she
assured him. "I don't even know how I got here. Clearly that woman
took an instant dislike to me and was just trying to get me into
hot water already."

The old slave-master gave a wry smirk.
"The jealousy of women is a weapon far more lethal than the
gladius."

"Jealousy?"

He sighed. "The general keeps a great
many women here. A great many. And since he has taken to sleeping
alone, it seems he thinks I need the extra work of keeping peace
betwixt the restless masses."

"But how could she be jealous of
me?"

He answered flatly, "Because you are
beautiful."

"Me?" She snorted.

"Lie here, slave." He had taken her to
a cushioned table and now with a clap of his wizened hands he
summoned two handsome, young male slaves who began to massage her
body thoroughly with almond oil.

Much to Amanda's reluctance, she quite
enjoyed it. Their hands were smooth and lithe, running up and down
her legs, lightly squeezing her bottom as she lay on her front with
her head on her arms. Even when she felt their fingers slip between
her legs and touch her sex, she only jumped a little. She hadn't
realized how much her legs ached from running through the forest,
but now she was weary and grateful for the chance to lie down. The
comfortable heat of the room and the sweet spice of the burning
incense, combined with gentle music played nearby on a lyre, made
her drowsy.

There were so many questions she had
to ask, but they faded from her thoughts. It was as if she'd been
hooked up to an IV of morphine. Everything was good now, some of it
even amusing. Whatever had happened to her, she was being treated
like a precious museum exhibit at that moment. Later, when she saw
that big-headed general again, she'd make another effort to get him
to understand. Unfortunately, when he ripped her costume off in the
forest, he left it behind with her phone, the one item that linked
her to real time. Getting him to believe where she'd come from was
going to be bloody—

Ooh, those hands were
masterful.

Amanda's muscles relaxed and her mind
followed suit. Her stomachache was gone, so perhaps it wasn't the
herald of her period after all. It may just have been nerves,
tension. She didn't like ...what? She couldn't remember anymore
what it was that she'd been anxious about in that other
world.

She had a whole other set of problems
now. Not that they felt like problems at the moment.

No one had ever called her "beautiful"
before and the old man had said it so matter-of-factly. As if she
should have known.

When she felt something soft and wet
touching her pussy, she sighed with sleepy delight. Strong hands
pressed her legs wider apart and gripped her ankles, then that
small, moist object moved over her pussy lips with faster, firmer
strokes until she felt those naughty waves gathering again deep
inside. She lifted her bottom slightly, but hands still held her
ankles down on the table, so she could not go far.

Amanda twisted to look over her
shoulder and saw one of the male slaves kneeling on the table
between her legs. It was his skilled mouth and tongue that
administered this caress.

Shocked to find a stranger licking her
pussy, she cried out in drowsy protest, but no one stopped him, or
came to her aid. The male slave closed his eyes, slipping his
tongue a little way inside her, where he wriggled the tip until she
felt that delicious tension knotting inside her cunt, her muscles
clenching with pleasure.

The slaves gathered around the table
smiled down at her. They patted her on the bottom and stoked her
hair.

"Parvum venustus."

She thought that Parvum meant small
and... something?

Well, she'd certainly never been
called small either. She might start enjoying this alternate
universe after all if her size was considered small here, she
thought drily.

"Good. Slave," one of them said,
making an effort in her own tongue, beaming down at her. "Much.
Pleasure. Give. Master. Parvum theca."

"Theca?"

They conferred with each another and
then one of the men cupped her sex in the palm of his hand.
"Vagina. So small. Our Master, fortunatus."

So much for being
flattered! "I'm glad you said
our
, because he's not
my
master," she yelled.
They were complimenting her on her damned vagina, after all. In
their eyes that was all she was.

"You pleasure him give," they insisted
politely.

"A knife in the gut, that's what I'll
give him if he touches me again!"

They merely smiled and nodded. Amanda
sat up and swung her legs off the padded table, but she could not
get far. One of them still held the end of her chain.

Frustrated, she reached up and felt
the bronze collar. She had a feeling this wasn't the sort of ring
Beyonce had in mind when she sang about putting one on
"it".