The General's Virgin Slave (5 page)

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He had just begun to get impatient
when they brought her to him. Laid on a couch, he was enjoying a
gustatio of eggs, fish, bread, cheese and olives, but by far his
most anticipated course this evening was the virgin.

And she was even more beautiful than
he had realized before. Now, with the blue paint and the dirt
washed off her, she glowed as if a ray of sun swept down through
those grey, gloomy clouds and touched her. The slave master had
dressed her in a short toga of diaphanous cloth, but Marcus wanted
her naked. He gestured briskly with one hand and the garment was
instantly removed.

Much to his amusement, the woman
covered her pubic mound with one hand and her breasts with the
other.

"Why do you hide your beauty?" he
demanded, sitting up. "Your body is lush treasure for my eyes. Yet
you act as if you are ashamed to show it."

"Lush?" she snapped. "Is that what you
call it?"

"You do not like this word, Feral
Princess?"

"Most people would say plump, or
chubby."

"And you like these words
better?"

She looked confused, irritated. He was
trying to understand her, but it seemed as if his attempt only
annoyed her more.

Marcus beckoned and the slave-master
led her to him, then handed her chain over. "The virgin slave has
been cleansed, master, as you desired."

"Excellent." His balls were heavy, his
shaft already hardened again, as he admired his new possession. Her
quim was blush pink, her belly softly rounded, her breasts two
splendidly full pears with rosy, tantalizing nipples. She held her
head high, but with anger still. "And I shall call her...Axa." It
seemed fitting, he mused, for she was certainly warlike.

"My name," she shouted, "is Amanda
Adams."

"Whatever your tribe called you before
this, now you are Axa. Axa Cassius." He would make her understand
that she was his now and therefore whatever her life was before he
found her, that was gone. "Sit." With his free hand he pointed to
the ground at his feet. "I shall explain to you the duties of my
bed slave."

"Bed slave?" Her eyes widened and then
she covered them with both hands, shaking her head so that the
chain rattled. "This is madness. I have to wake up. Oh, god, I have
to wake up!"

He jerked on her leash and she
stumbled, hands going to her collar.

"Sit," he barked, for she tried his
patience. He began to fear she might be mad, touched in the brain.
One never could tell with these natives. "Kneel at my feet, Axa. Or
Flavian, my slave-master, will use the flagellum." He didn't want
her skin marked, but he had to threaten her regardless, or else she
might expect to get away with her defiance.

He looked over at the slave-master and
nodded. Flavian made a performance of unhooking the whip from his
belt and showing it to the girl. Hopefully she wouldn't be able to
tell how rarely it was used in that house.

A strange look passed over her face.
Her cheeks were pale and sucked in, her lips held tight. She
finally lowered herself to kneel on the mosaic floor. But Marcus
knew, from the sultry gleam in her clear green eyes that she was
not yet done fighting him.

"Axa," he said sternly.

She did not look at him for she still
watched the flagellum.

Marcus tugged on her chain.
"Axa."

"Ouch!" That got her attention again,
her hands going back up to the collar.

"Open your mouth."

The flames spat and sizzled in her
eyes. "Why?"

"Axa, a slave does not ask questions.
A slave obeys all things asked of her."

She must have seen Flavian step closer
with the whip in hand, so she opened her lips with a tense sigh and
muttered, "I'll wake up soon anyway, so fine. Whatever."

Marcus ran a fingertip over her teeth,
bottom and then top. "Yes, you are fine, Axa." Very good, clean and
preserved. This suggested she did indeed come from a family of some
prestige within the native hierarchy. Such as it was. She must have
eaten well and plentifully throughout her life and learned some
cleansing habits, at least.

He took a pitted olive from the
platter and fed it to her, placing it carefully on the end of her
tongue. She closed her lips and glared up at him. For a moment he
thought she would spit it at him, but she slowly chewed and then
swallowed.

The feeding continued with bread and a
piece of soft cheese that he made her lick from his
fingertips.

"You were hungry, Axa?"

She said nothing, but her gaze darted
sideways to the full platter. He laughed.

So amusing she was, trying to hide
things with her face and lips, while her eyes revealed every
thought to him. "If you are a good slave, Axa, I will give you a
pillow to kneel upon tomorrow."

"Lucky me," she retorted, her tone
sullen.

Marcus cupped her chin in his hand and
raised it. "Yes, you are most fortunate. I have selected you to
dine at my side and sleep in my bed. Do you know who I
am?"

"Nope. I can't even begin to imagine.
Yet," she chuckled scornfully, "somehow I must have, mustn't I? Or
you wouldn't be here."

"I am Marcus Cassius, Primus Pilus.
You are now my property and you will address me as Master or
General."

"I can't call you Marcus?"

He'd never heard his name on a slave's
lips before. It sounded...too intimate. "No!" He sat back, still
holding her chain."What is the name of your tribe,
woman?"

She seemed to think about this for a
moment. "Adams, I suppose."

"I have never heard of
them."

"No, you wouldn't have."

"Why? They hide like spies,
eh?"

"God, no!" She laughed lightly and
shook her hair back from her face. "Not my family. They're loud,
clumsy and generally drink too much. I'm afraid they wouldn't make
very good spies." Suddenly she seemed to forget what she was
saying. Her gaze had landed on his shoulder and upper arm as he
reached for bread. It was not the timid, shy glance of a slave. It
was a look of admiration. Bold and unabashed admiration.

Tonight he wore a simple, sleeveless
tunic of linen. It was always a relief to remove all that armor and
relax in the comfort of his own triclinium. On this occasion, in
the company of his brand new slave, Marcus felt more at ease than
usual. However, he found that her green-eyed appreciation of his
muscles caused tension in at least one body part.

"You have a lot of scars," she
muttered.

He thought about not responding, but
she seemed so interested that he couldn't resist boasting. "Yes. I
have fought many campaigns across the empire."

He offered the bread to her and she
took it slowly, staring at his hand. Her lashes swept down and then
up again, her pupils dilated, her cheeks softly, charmingly
colored. Once more her gaze traversed the length of his broad arm
to his flexing shoulder.

"You admire the brand upon my arm,
Axa?" It was not like Marcus Cassius to flirt and tease, but he was
in an odd mood. And he liked the way she looked at the mark
tattooed on his arm. When her fingertips strayed across the
letters, he felt his cock stretch under his tunic. The organ was
still annoyed with him, of course, for not letting it have this
woman earlier today.

"SPQR," she read softly. "I never knew
whether Roman soldiers were really marked like that."

"Not all. Some." When he flexed the
muscle, she withdrew her fingers as if they were burned. He sat up
straighter, chest out. "The best."

"Oh, of course," she laughed again,
biting into the bread he'd given her. "I have no doubt that you are
the best, Marc—Master."

"Hmm." He watched her slyly, for he
did not know how to react to her laughter. Slaves did not laugh at
or with Marcus. Ever. He reached across his chest, jabbing a finger
at the tattoo. "Senatus Populusque Romanus."

"Uh huh." She chewed slowly with her
very white teeth, her gaze still focused on his arm.

Marcus flexed his arm again and she
choked, spitting out a piece of bread. Amused he passed her the
wine cup so she might take a sip.

"What kind of wine is this? It tastes
different to the sort I'm used to."

"It is Setinian, from Italy. I suppose
you drink mead like the other Britons. You will get a taste for my
wine."

She nodded, but her eyes still watched
his arms and then moved across his tunic as if they could see
beneath it.

"The men of your tribe are not made
like me, Axa?"

She gave a funny, wry smile. "Nothing
like it."

He sniffed and nonchalantly tossed an
olive into his own mouth, before he might be tempted to smile back
at her.

"What's that one?" She pointed with
the clay cup at the mark on his other shoulder. "Bis Vivit Qui Bene
Vivit?"

"That is the motto of my familia in
Sicily. He lives twice who lives well."

Bright eyes like the most precious
emeralds glimmered above the rim of the wine cup.
"Interesting."

"Am I indeed?" He shifted on his
couch, uneasy, thinking he should tell her not to ask so many
questions and just walk away from her. But his body refused to
oblige.

"Yes," she said coyly,
"very."

"You study me as if I am a scroll of
secrets, woman."

"Maybe you are."

Marcus had never conversed with a
female slave, for talking was not necessary. In fact he seldom had
need for conversation with anybody. His superiors in rank thought
him nothing more than convenient, loyal muscle and didn't care to
know anything else about him, or where he was from. As long as he
got the job done they were content. Those inferior to Marcus were
too awestruck in his presence to speak a word.

This woman, however, tugged the speech
out of him with her admiring glances. She gazed now at his lips,
waiting for him to speak.

"What is the motto of your people,
Axa?" he ventured.

"We don't have one. It's not common
these days...I mean, where I'm from. Among my people."

Why, he wondered, had she remained
virgin at her age? She was ripe, as he had observed. Clearly no
longer a child. Why had no man in her tribe claimed her for his
own? Perhaps the men were all weaklings— she had suggested as much
with her comment about his physique. "Tell me of your
people."

"There's not much to tell. Really, I'd
rather eat. Suddenly I'm famished." A quizzical line appeared
between her brows. "I don't know the last time I ate."

Ah, she was reluctant to speak of her
people. He eyed her thoughtfully and then nodded. "Now you are here
your loyalty is to me, in any case."

"Oh, right." She nodded, but seemed
distracted by the food.

"Axa, I am your master now. I am your
everything. There is no better man than me."

She laughed.

He scowled. "This amuses
you?"

"No...I mean, yes...I mean..." she
sighed heavily. "You are a creation of my imagination and I've made
you so arrogant. Yet, I like you." The woman sat back on her heels
and looked at the plate of food, her eyes wistful.

I like
you
, she said, as if bestowing an honor
upon him. Yet she called
him
arrogant.

She tilted her head. "You keep a lot
of slaves?"

"Thirty at least. I know not the full
number."

"And you think it is right for one man
to own another?"

Once again he overlooked her flouting
of the rules and answered this impertinence. "They are better off
here with me, than they would be elsewhere. Here they have food,
shelter, protection. Any slave in my household takes my name and
becomes my responsibility— their health, their life is mine to
ensure. I take my role as their master most seriously."

"I'm sure they would rather have their
freedom."

"To be shoeless and starving,
scratching in the dirt for coins that might drop from the litter of
a rich man?"

That silenced her for a while. Apart
from her growling stomach.

So Marcus fed her with more of his
dinner, fascinated by the way she took from his fingers with those
neat, white teeth. Her hair gleamed in the evening sunset that
slipped through the wide portal to the courtyard of his villa. Her
beauty struck him again, this time not with a flash of lightning,
but with a mellowed, golden warmth that flooded his body, heated
his blood, and lingered. Marcus had never seen a woman like her, or
heard one talk the way she did, as if they were equals. Despite
being enslaved, she was not humbled by him, and that should make
him angry.

It did not. He felt something, but it
was not anger.

"This food tastes better than anything
I've ever had," she told him, her voice soft, surprised. "So full
of flavor."