Chief rape | A RASH EXCURSION | bdsm stories

Up in the hills, it was cool after the rising heat and dust of the plain, and the little lakes and pools between the pines made perfect bathing places for naked females, with little lawns of soft grass for them to lie on at their Sapphic celebrations. The Centurion in charge of the escort had proved a bit of a trial to start with, quoting the Governor's orders to stay near to the forts, and not to stray where they couldn't see an enemy approaching from a distance, but Lavinia had soon over-ruled him, putting on her best Patrician manner and reminding him she was the Governor's wife.

Today they had gone a little further still, to a small lake, that, legend said, was the home of a water nymph, who had been turned into a silver fish to escape a lustful God. Lavinia had gone down to the pool, with only her favourite lover, telling the other girls, and the escort, to stay well away, and not disturb them. They had swum, and drunk wine and made beautiful love on the soft bank, Lavinia holding the girl's head fiercely between her thighs as she bucked and cried out, and bucked again, in shattering ecstasies. The girl had a magic tongue, and Lavinia was exhausted by the time she had had a fourth orgasm in less than forty minutes.

"I will sleep now, Dorcia," she told the girl. "Go back to the others, my dear, and come back with scented oil and massage me in an hour."

When the girl had gone, the warmth of the sun, the effects of her sexual exertions, the good red wine, all these lowered her gently through drowsiness into sleep, her naked form curled on its side on the couch of sweet grass.

She was woken by a booted foot pressed into her belly, turning her over onto her back. She lay stupefied by slumber for a moment, her arms and legs

thrown wide, exposing all her nudity. Her eyes slowly opened. Standing against the backdrop of pine branches was a tall bearded figure in the outlandish costume of the Barbarians.

"I thought they had all got away," he remarked to his companion, "but it seems there's one left. A fine tasty woman by the look of her. Nothing like mature meat I always say."

She tried to curl into a defensive ball to cover her nakedness, but strong fingers wound into her hair and dragged her to her feet. Soon a leather thong secured her hands behind her, and she found herself prodded with the butt of a javelin and made to walk before the two men up a path leading from the lake.

Where the trees ended, the Barbarian camp lay on gently sloping ground, a score of large yurts, surrounding an especially ornamented one, obviously the tent of a Chief. As they approached, men came swarming out of the yurts, or paused in their work in the horse lines. They all watched with interest as the naked woman was driven before her captors. Fully conscious now, her pride had reasserted itself, and she walked with head held high, ignoring her nudity, showing by her bearing her high status.

The watchers seemed only slightly impressed, favouring her with lustful leers and lewd comments, and what they would like to do with her, but at least they deemed her a sufficiently valuable prize to reserve her for the Chief and not rape her on the spot, as was their custom, passing a captive from man to man until all had had their fill.

The Chief sat on a folding stool of tooled leather on an ebony frame, outside the principle yurt.

"Greetings Khaka, that's a fine mare you've got there. Where did you find her?"

"Sleeping down by the lake, Highness. There were some other fillies near by, and some men in charge, but they fled before we could get near. Back in the fort by now I would think, telling them that Talla the Alan has come to rape them all."

The big man laughed. Lavinia looked at him with new interest, and not a little respect. The Alans were the fiercest fighters in the Caucasus, sweeping all before them, but they had left Pityus alone more or less, apparently feeling that it was too small, and too well defended, to warrant the expense of capture, when there were much easier prizes on the plains of the Ukraine. What was he doing here? She felt his eyes on her, and shuddered despite herself.

The fierce dark eyes eyes ranged avidly over her naked body. They saw a mature female, no girl, very much a woman, more than thirty years old, tall, statuesque, her proud bearing making her height even more pronounced, thrusting out large firm breasts that were held up prominently by the fine muscles her periodic service in mill and quarry had built, crowned by thick fat nipples set in dark discs of flesh adorned with a circlet of small pip-like protrusions like lesser stones set around a more important jewel.

She had returned from each stint in the state's service with a belly flattened by toil, and slatted with iron-hard muscle. Twelve months restrained indulgence had been followed by a session in the mills as rigorous as it was short, which had eradicated any incipient deterioration in her physical condition, and the three months that had passed since had left no sag, merely given the rather masculine hardness a softer feminine gloss. The dense thatch below, parted slightly, still damp from her amorous play of the morning, showed thick full lips to her vulva. The shapely wide spaced thighs framed rather than concealed the treasure within. Behind, her rump was round and high, set above legs that tapered gracefully down to shapely knees, and on to trim ankles and well-formed feet; not the delicate extremities of a doll, but firm and lissom, used to going bare on mountain track or treadmill.

Fine features, a glossy mane of dark hair down to her shoulder blades, and a proud look completed the picture. Talla was intrigued.

"Who are you, woman?" he asked, "and what are you doing here, so far from the safety of your forts?"

She drew herself up to her most regal, her bearing impressive, despite her nakedness and the pinioning of her arms.

"I am Lavinia, wife to Gaius Maximus, Governor of Pityus. Return me at once and he will reward you. Abuse me and he will hunt you down and make you pay dearly."

"Well, well. A fine blood mare indeed," the Chieftain remarked. "Let us see how she gallops. Put her over my bar."

She started to protest, crying out that she was a Roman Lady and he would be sorry if he did not treat her with respect, but he merely said, "And gag her while you're about it, if she continues to make a fuss."

Choking with frustrated anger, she was roughly bundled towards the entrance to the yurt.

Inside it was furnished with some luxury for a nomadic raider. Fine carpets hung on walls and floor, many cushions were piled in various corners for sitting or sleeping. The roof was supported in the centre by twin poles, set about two paces apart. Joining them, at groin height, was a metal bar. The men who held her pushed her up against the bar, until it pressed into the tops of her thighs, then kicked her feet apart and secured her widely parted ankles to the base of the tent poles with leather thongs. Another wide leather belt around her waist forced her to stay pressed against the bar, waiting her fate.

It was some while coming. Apparently the Chief was not about to interrupt his business outside for the trivial rape of a captured woman, high born and appetising though she was. She must await his pleasure, until he had time to spare for her. Sometime in the long afternoon, a servant brought her a little wine, and held the bowl to her lips, and later he returned with part of a flat loaf and some mare's milk cheese. She thought ruefully it was probably not out of kindness, but so that she might have her strength kept up to endure what was coming.

When he eventually appeared, he was not alone. A small man, obviously Roman, accompanied him.

"Well, slave," he asked, "do you recognise the lady? She's been making some fine claims, and she's a mare of high temper, but is she truly the wife of the Governor?"

The slave looked at the naked woman bent over the bar, then turned away as if embarrassed.

"She cannot bite," the Chief teased him. "Have you seen her before?"

"Yes Master," came the reply, "this is the Lady Lavinia, wife to the Governor."

"So she wasn't lying! She's too good a piece to pass up, so I would have had her anyway. All the better that I shall be riding the Governor's own mare...

you may leave us now, though I shall want you in the morning, to write to the Governor for me."

The tent flap closed behind the captured clerk, and Lavinia found herself the subject of an inspection such as men give to horses they are considering buying. He walked round her, examining her carefully from all angles, then went to her head and lifted her by the hair in one hand. He used his other hand to pull her jaws apart to inspect her fine white teeth. He pulled up her eyelids with his thumbs, inspecting the whites as she blinked back the tears, then cupped her breasts as if weighing them, giving the thumb-like nipples a hard squeeze.

She writhed silently, for she would not give him the satisfaction of hearing her cry out. She knew that any protest would be useless. This man was hard and cruel, and her only aim now was to try and maintain some shreds of dignity while she endured the inevitable abuse that was to come.

He moved behind her, transferring his grip to her buttocks, testing the muscles of her haunches between his palms, forcing his thumbs into the cleft between and spreading the cheeks to reveal the shrinking anus, prodding the wrinkled dimple with a bone-hard forefinger.

She squirmed in his grip, but still did not cry out.

Fastened as she was, with legs wide spread, and her belly pressed to the bar by her constraints, she could do nothing to stop him when he reached between her thighs from behind and took her genitals in his hands. He parted the swollen labia and ran practised fingers along the gleaming slit until he found the nub of the clitoris at the top. She jerked convulsively as he nipped the tender gland between thumbnail and forefinger, and he stood back and slapped her buttocks smartly with a horny hand.

"You're prime meat," he told her. "No filly, but that's to my taste, I've no use for simpering virgins. What was the Governor thinking of, letting you

wander in these distant parts? Well, I hope he won't begrudge me a ride in return for finding you."

He came round to her front again, bringing the same folding stool he had sat on outside to dispense justice and receive reports from his scouts. He planted himself in it, directly in front of her, his britches open, a thick pulsing staff sticking up before her face. His fingers gripped her hair again, forcing her to bend forward.

"Just a stirrup cup," he grinned. "Before the main event. Get your mouth to work on this."

"Never!" she spat at him. "Never! If you try and put that disgusting thing in my mouth I shall leave you only half a manhood."

"Perhaps I should send for the farrier to remove those pretty front pearls then," he mused. The threat was all the more menacing for the quietness of his tone. She didn't reply, but still set her lips stubbornly, refusing to open them and take him in.

"Ah. You baulk. A touch of the spur is what you need, my girl!"

Suddenly she screamed, as much from shock as pain. He had raised his legs either side of her and brought the rowelled spurs on his boots stabbing into her flanks. She didn't hesitate, but closed her warm wet mouth over the jutting ramshead between his legs and began to suck on it.

"Easy, easy," he said, pulling gently on her hair, as she sucked desperately at his weapon, "let's not rush our fences. There's the whole night before us, and I intend to put you over the jumps many times before it's over."

Guided by his grip in her hair, she moderated her pace, varying her straightforward suction with tongue strokes along the throbbing shaft, and gentle nips of her lips on the purple helmet. She didn't dare even think of using her teeth; he'd have them pulled from her gums if she so much as grazed the delicate covering of the pole of flesh she nuzzled. When the eruption finally came, he rammed deep into her throat, making her gag with the pressure and the pain, but forcing her to swallow every drop of his copious spend.

He rested only a moment, a cup of wine in his hand, then rose and walked round her again, inspecting his prize. Evidently he liked what he saw, for he was soon erect again, standing behind her, presenting the shaft to her shrinking buttocks.

"Get off me, you barbarian pig," she screamed. "Are you an animal, that you want to take me there?"

"Quiet, woman," he ordered, but she went on cursing him, and clenching her sphincter to keep him out.

"A bridle for a wilful mare, then!" he remarked. "At least I'll be spared your yakking."

He seized her jaw, forcing it open, and thrust home a steel bit, a cruel device designed for a turbulent stallion, all rough iron and needle sharp spikes. It held down her tongue agonisingly. He fastened the straps that positioned it tight behind her head, then returned to his attack on her rear entrance.

Three times he pressed the swollen head against her dimpled anus, but the clenched sphincter would not admit him and, dry as he was, to force her would have caused him almost as much discomfort to himself.

"Open up," he ordered, smacking one buttock to emphasise his demand, but still she kept her door tight closed against him.

"A touch of the whip is what you need, my girl," he snapped, "loosen you up in no time."

A line of fire fell across her half bent buttocks, followed by another and another. When he finally stopped, she was gasping with the agony of the flaying whip. Sweat stood on her brow and trickled from her armpits. He returned to her anus and, this time, she made herself relax enough that he could gain an entrance, then pushed back inside her bowels to help him penetrate her fully.

She had always avoided buggery when she could, feeling degraded by the act, but the whipping had been awful, and she was not going to risk a repeat.

Even the humiliation of being stuffed by this monstrous baton of flesh ramming into her rectum, was better than having her buttocks cut to ribbons by his vicious leather quirt. She felt the hot wads of his discharge in her gut, then he withdrew, but only to treat himself to a sip of wine and gloat over the

distress of his victim. Her voluptuous form was made even more deeply erotic by its bonds and its total vulnerability, and the way it was trembling.

When he entered her again she had a new fear to face. In her mouth and her bowels, at least she was safe from impregnation, however degrading and painful the act. Now he was attacking her vulnerable womb. She knew she was fertile, her menses had come and gone half a moon since. Ordinarily she would not have feared, using a slip of oil soaked sponge across the mouth of her womb to keep out the marauding seed, or washing it away with goatskin bag and nozzle as soon as planted, but now there would be no protective sponges, no cleansing nozzles.

This virile stallion might leave her in foal before tonight's business was finished.

As the night wore on, her terrors grew no less, for he seemed insatiable and, once his mastery over her body had been established by having her bow to his will and submit to the rape of mouth and anus, he appeared content to use only her sheath for his pleasure, flooding her womb again and again with thick hot gouts of his virile semen. By morning, sore and dripping between her thighs, she despaired of escaping the swollen belly she dreaded so much.

She didn't want to be pregnant again at her age, but that wasn't the true reason for her fear. There was no guarantee she'd be accepted back into society in any case after she'd been taken by barbarians. There would be the certainty in everyone's mind that she had been violated. But if she had a barbarian's child in her belly... then she would be rejected indeed, either forced to kill herself or turned out into the wilderness to fend for herself - which amounted to about the same thing.

Even if they gave her a chance she would have to get rid of any foetus and, the way these things were done out here, that was only marginally better than death. There had been terrible tales rumoured among her friends about the ways of the Syrian midwives, whose secret methods were effective, but who believed the loss of the child should bring suffering to punish the woman for her sin. Even if she had been raped. There had been no proof of the rumours, but more than one woman had come back from the Syrian quarter of the city with her belly flattened, but stricken by fear at the mere sight of their characteristic black and white striped garb, cringing into the wall as they went by, eyes glazed in terror from their experiences at the dark skinned women's hands, though they were unable to talk of what had happened, however pressed.

One thing was known. The Syrians marked their patients with two diagonal bars on their belies, just below the navel. They were as thick and as long as a woman's little finger, and burnt deep with a hot iron. It was assumed that this was so that a return visit could be made even more excruciating than the first, since that had failed to discourage her from risking her womb a second time.

There were several of the regulars at the baths who always seemed to have a modest hand lying on their bellies as they entered and left the water, though they flaunted their naked breasts.

Each time she felt his seed spurting into her, the fear rose in Lavinia anew, sending shudders through her body that resembled those of passion, but had an even deeper and more unsettling cause. She had no wish to bear those deeply puckered bars in her own belly.

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