Glorious Enslavement

I am a slave, both by circumstance and proclivity. Long have I prayed for the perfect master and trusted the Goddess to guide me into his arms.

At Verulamium, in the heart of Roman Britannia, I find him. Gaius Antonius Captio is a man of wealth and power, and his domination brings me ecstasy untold. Yet while I surrender without hesitation, he resents his ever-growing desire for me. In his eyes, a slave should hold no sway over her master.

But the winds of change are blowing, bringing the threat of destruction. Will my glorious enslavement be brought to an end before Gaius dares admit he can no longer separate the pleasures of the body from those of the heart?

I am a slave, both by circumstance and proclivity. Long have I prayed for the perfect master and trusted the Goddess to guide me into his arms.

At Verulamium, in the heart of Roman Britannia, I find him. Gaius Antonius Capito is a man of power, harsh and exacting, and his domination brings me pleasure untold. Yet while I surrender without hesitation he resents his ever-growing desire for me—and my submission. In his eyes a slave should hold no sway over her master.

But the winds of change are blowing, bringing the threat of destruction and perhaps even death. In times such as these desperate measures must be brought to bear. Only the Goddess can save my master, but will pride make him reject Her protection, and end this glorious enslavement?

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Hungry for more? Spice Briefs to suit every taste are available now at www.spicebriefs.com, including these recent titles:

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My hands are bound, rough twists of rope chafing skin already raw from many days of confinement, yet I scarcely notice anymore. The Roman town rattles and screams and screeches around me, a cacophony of sound that muffles the dull rush of my heart. A gray sky hovers above, moodily threatening rain, and moisture drips from every surface. Intensified by the damp, a malodorous mixture of unwashed bodies, cattle, wool and dung assaults my nostrils. How different is this place called Britannia from my green and tranquil home across the sea.

Inert, I stand on the slaver’s platform, surrounded by those who like me have ceased to be what they were. Yet while many cry, cringe, bewail being snatched from field, or forge, or family, I stand quietly, awaiting my fate. My journey has been long and tiring. Perhaps here will be found the peace I seek.

Buyers mill and flow around me, yet I pay them little heed. The Goddess is with me. I entreat Her, as I have at every turn, and hear Her voice in my heart:

Behold your master.

I see him, know him instantly. Not from the narrow, hawkish face with its dark hooded eyes, nor the sensuous lines of mouth and body. Not from the fine wool of his wrapped and pleated garment or the rich gold and gleaming gems adorning fingers and clothing.

No, I know him from the air, from the vibrations of the earth beneath me, the sudden stilling of my body.

I know his power in my soul, and my heart jumps with delight.

Assured, aware of his worth, he allows others to display for him the human wares, try to tempt him into parting with his coin.

Please, let there be no temptation until he sees me.

Closer he comes. The air of boredom surrounding him intensifies. He dismisses a slaver’s comment with a silent slashing motion of one hand, glances around impatiently. Nothing seems to satisfy his needs.

I can satisfy you, Master, serve you with my hands and body, give you pleasure.

It is my turn. The slaver forces my chin up, and I do not fight. My hair falls back from my face but I keep my eyes downcast, focused on the buyer’s strong, long-fingered hand where it holds an edge of his garment. I watch those fingers flex, curl to crush the wool, and a rush of desire, hot, sweet as honey mead, flows from inside my womb. The secret, sacred walls of my cunt contract around the Goddess ring hidden within. I shudder, and the slaver laughs.

I cannot understand what they say to each other, but my heart beats faster as the man I hope to serve steps close.

Goddess—I am ever faithful, ever yours.

As if in reply his hand advances to grip a lock of my hair. The red-gold tress wraps around his finger: a harbinger of my devotion, my faithfulness. Flicking it away, he slides his hand with unerring accuracy beneath my thin cloak, which is all I have been given to stave off the damp. Cold, unyielding, his fingers close around my arm and squeeze, thumb brushing against the side of my breast. Immediately heat washes through my veins, contrasting with the cool air flowing over my exposed body. My nipples tighten and, with a gasp, I draw a short, sharp breath into my chest. With it comes his scent and I hold it inside, knowing it will never be forgotten.