Whipping At LupercaliabyCRaZy©
Long before St. Valentine’s Day, there was the festival of Lupercalia in Ancient Rome...
Halia’s husband approached the bed as she cowered in vain beneath one of the skins that kept them warm. He carried a large pitcher of wine in his craggy hands which she knew by now would be half empty, despite the sun having only just arisen.
“Useless barren bitch,” he was shouting. “I would have more success in obtaining a son and heir from one of the virgins at the Temple of Vesta. Pah!”
He took a long swig from the pitcher, then abruptly spat the contents directly into Halia’s face. She looked down, inwardly quaking, but refusing to cry. The wine formed tiny rivulets which flowed over her chin, down her long neck to the porcelain white valley between her breasts. They were firm and high with the caress of the warm wine sending a slight tremor through her nipples, despite her fear. She thought about enticing her husband into bed at that very moment. It would be useless, she knew. Too much wine would have wilted his performance.
“I am so sorry husband,” she responded meekly. “Perhaps today, perhaps the februa...”
“Hear this,” he growled through ancient, yellowing teeth. “No heir by next winter and I will divorce you. Send you to the streets. I could have married into many noble families. I have money. Your father is dead. I do not need your family connections now.” He then swept from the bed chamber, shouting instructions at the servants and preparing for the festival ahead.
Halia was chilled by her husband’s threats. She was an only child whose mother had died when she was an infant. Her father had now been a year in his grave. There were no male relatives she could turn to. She would have nowhere to live. Halia shuddered at the thought of life as a temple prostitute which might await her. She had begged her father not to betroth her to a wizened old man twice her age. Her father had simply kissed her on the forehead and assured her it was for the best. He had wanted her securely married to a nobleman before his death. How little her father had known. Now that this cruel man had squandered Halia’s inheritance, he intended to abandon her to a fate far worse than her father ever imagined.
Halia’s personal attendant, Magia, entered and began to help with her ablutions for the day. She meticulously placed all the necessary items beside a wooden bench in one corner of the room and beckoned to her mistress. Halia sat on the bench, stifling her tears as Magia undressed her. Carefully, gently, Magia dipped a soft cloth into a large wooden bowl of rose-petal scented water. Without haste, she began to carefully wash her mistress, gradually feeling her relax under her ministrations. Magia pulled aside Halia’s long, straight, ebony hair in order to squeeze water from the cloth down her back. With deliberate lack of ceremony, she placed her tongue against the wine stain between her mistress’ breasts and licked greedily. Halia’s nipples puckered gracefully and Magia was rewarded with a soft moan from her mistress as her hips bucked slightly.
Magia continued to drag the cloth down her mistress’ spine while she licked in ever smaller concentric rings around her breasts, until she was rewarded with the rough excitement of Halia’s nipples against her mouth. Her lips expertly sucked the elongated pearls until she saw Halia’s eyes flicker and close. She slid the cloth slowly, slowly, down Halia’s back until it met the dimpled crack between her ivory cheeks. A sigh emitted from deep in Halia’s throat. Magia knew it was time. Gently, she enticed her mistress to lie face down on the bench. From a casket on the floor, Magia gingerly produced her mistress’ latest solution to this barren state. The doctor from Egypt had promised miracles. For two years, Magia had sadly watched her mistress drink herbal elixirs, pray endlessly at the temples and consult daily with her soothsayer. It was all a pointless exercise. Everyone knew that Halia’s husband was a withered, old man who only wanted to imbibe and watch blood sports. Halia, however, continued to blame herself for their lack of progeny.
With a slight shudder, Magia carefully placed the coiled asp on her mistress’ back. It was cold and clammy, yet surprisingly smooth to touch. The doctor had stressed that if this tiny but deadly snake did not kill the patient, she would most definitely be pregnant before the end of spring. Magia deftly began to mix the aromatic oils also prescribed by the doctor while Halia lay perfectly still, frozen in place, muttering chants to the gods. Languidly, the beast began to uncurl, almost as though it wished to remain in hibernation indefinitely. It slithered in tantalisingly slow, circular patterns, flicking its tongue frequently, making no attempt to leave Halia’s perfect skin.
Halia held her breath as fear and longing melded into one. The caresses of the snake left a trail of goosebumps. The mesmerising, repetitive movements sparked tiny tingles that spread throughout her body causing her to shudder at regular intervals.
“Be calm now mistress,” whispered Magia, as she began to apply the oils to the secret places prescribed by the Egyptian doctor. She took Halia’s legs, spreading them wider, then stood at the end of the bench where she had a perfect view of the pouty, brunette space she was to administer.
Magia lightly slicked the oils along the outer lips at the centre of Halia’s femininity, carefully avoiding the erogenous zone she knew so well. The doctor had instructed that Halia must take her pleasure without a movement or whimper in order to avoid disturbing the snake. He had stressed that it could strike at any time if given provocation. Magia sang a lilting song that her mother had constantly hummed to her as a child, watching the flush rise in her mistress’ skin, feeling her womanhood pulse. She began to fondle her dewy entrance, its slinky tightness clamping against the invading finger. The snake continued to calmly weave its own mesmerising path on Halia’s back.
Magia maintained her soothing finger massage whilst seeking out Halia’s most sensitive spot, lightly flicking it with the tips of her nails. She watched as Halia gripped the bench stubbornly, her face contorted as she fought to control her body’s instincts. Magia held the chrysalis firmly now and rolled it rhythmically. She knew how responsive her mistress could be. With rising terror, she watched as Halia lost control and slid her pubic bone frantically up and down on the bench, her short, sharp cries echoing around the room. With one almighty shudder, she raised her hips from the bench and slammed back down with an audible thud, mewling incessantly. Magia willed the snake not to react as she watched her mistress’ breathing return to normal, the bright pink blush on her skin fading to its usual pale hue.
The slippery creature on Halia’s back seemed oblivious to the excitement which had taken place. At last, it made its way over her left hip, onto the side of the bench and down to the floor. Both Halia and Magia gasped in wonder as it wove its way towards the casket and slithered inside.
“It’s a sign,” breathed Magia at length.
“Yes,” replied Halia. “A good sign.”
Magia finished bathing her mistress, then helped her dress for the upcoming festival. First, she piled her luscious tresses high into tight ringlets, leaving enticing wisps at the back of her neck. She knew that her mistress needed to attract attention today and therefore chose only the finest, brightest clothes. She helped Halia slip into a pair of drawstring pants which came to the knees, tying them tightly whilst marvelling at the tautness of Halia’s stomach, so unlike the round bellies of many women she had served. Magia had selected a bold red tunic with gold brocade at the neckline which she adjusted with complex buckles at the sleeves. On top of this, she placed a stark white shorter tunic, its plainness emphasising the richness of the red beneath. Finally, a wispy cloak which shimmered with all colours of the rainbow was fastened over her shoulders. Halia twirled a little and her mistress smiled at the stunning effect. The colours reflected off Halia’s pale skin, emphasising her fragile beauty. She could not fail to attract the attention of the Luperci. She would surely be cut with their februa as they ran through the streets.
In the hope that her humility would please the gods, Halia insisted on walking. She donned her most comfortable sandals and headed towards the top of Palatine Hill. Even for spring, the air was still crisp and she strolled quickly. As she approached the hill, she saw that crowds had already gathered, eager women having waited for hours to secure the most prominent positions near the Lupercal, that sacred cave which would be the focal point of this morning’s activities. She made her way through the throngs, some of them cavorting and drinking, determined that the februa, the sacred leather thong, would strike at her delicate flesh and render her fertile. Today was important; she had no time for carousing and celebration.
Gradually, the tension built as those near the front of the cave commentated on proceedings. The dog and goat had been sacrificed. The priests had smeared blood from the sacrifice over two of the Luperci. They were now cutting strips to make the whips, the februa. The process was long and drawn out. Some lost interest as they moved elsewhere to feast. However, it seemed like an endless stream of women was joining the eager crowd at the entrance to the Lupercal. Then she heard victory shouts and spied two man-beast figures running from the cave. The Luperci, clad only in the sacrificial skins were clearly enjoying their role. They ran fast, cracking the februa mercilessly as women fled towards them, arms outstretched, begging for its stinging kiss.
A woman up ahead gave a shout as she leapt onto the road in front of the Luperci. Halia heard a loud crack as the whip met the woman’s flesh, then saw a flow of blood seeping through the sleeve of her tunic. She bit her lower lip and held firm in her resolve. Defiant, head held high, Halia stepped onto the path now in front of the Luperci. One of the young men ran savagely towards her, bearing down with the februa raised. She lifted her eyes to his and in that moment saw their fiery excitement. Then she felt it. An expertly executed lash against her breasts, cutting furiously and deep. Even as tears sprang to her eyes, she bade him pause before he finished his journey around Palatine Hill.
“Again. Please,” she managed to utter wretchedly. “Make me suffer. Help me bear a child.”
For a moment the young man looked like he would ignore her and continue on his way to service the other begging women in his path. After the initial hesitation, he lifted the februa horizontally and once again flicked it harshly across her chest. She felt an incredible warmth spreading through her breasts, the ache becoming something almost like desire. She was sure he had not broken her flesh, merely punctured it deeply.
Halia felt an incessant humming in her brain, a primeval urge which led her to stumble determinedly along the none too even edges of the path back down the Palatine. She followed the Luperci, keeping them in sight, certain that she could gain one more switch of the februa for good measure. The numerous women who leapt out in front of the Luperci were halting their progress. Eventually, heated and breathless, Halia found herself just behind the Luperci and she called to the man who had so captured her attention.
“Behind you. Behind you,” she shouted, running towards him in undignified eagerness, preparing for a final lash. She noticed him in his entirety this time. His face and body were perfectly sculpted. One of Rome’s many statues come to life if it were not for his gleaming, amygdala skin. She stood before him, pointing at the whip to indicate her need, her voice having failed her. He didn’t raise his object of pain. The noise of the crowd dissipated now as they headed towards the Forum for further entertainment. Instead, he took the thin strip of thong and ran it pointedly across her front, over her pubic mound, down her legs to her toes. It was so fleeting, she almost thought she had imagined it, but it seemed that he then pointed the februa at the Temple of Vesta situated below. Before Halia could recover her senses, he was gone, flailing at the last of the women who stood in his path.
Halia knew that she should join her husband at the Forum. After all, what could she achieve now? She had received the fruitful lashes gratefully. She had prayed. She had even used the potent snake charm given to her by the Egyptian doctor. There was nothing more to do but wait. Yet, she felt compelled to make her way towards the temple, a powerful spell driving her away from the teeming masses. It was quiet in front of the temple, only a few of the priestesses warily keeping an eye on the eternal flame from the portico outside. She collected some incense and moved towards the altar. It appeared to be deserted. The tiniest movement caught her eye as she walked at a slow, respectful pace. A mere glimpse of that light tan skin allowed her to recognise the other occupant. She gasped inwardly. There was no-one else visible as she made her way to the marble column behind which this almost naked, almost god stood.
Halia felt her knees tremble as she presented herself. He grabbed her roughly and pushed her chest against the inviting, cool marble. The column was wide and she realised that they need never be discovered as long as there was no sound to attract attention. Desperately, Halia remembered that even the fear of a fatal asp bite had failed to elicit silence. She had never been with any man other than her husband. This was a madness that only lewd women not of noble birth would consider. The Luperci were supposed to be running through the Forum right now. Surely, someone would come looking for him. Yet, his hands felt so good as they unbuckled her tunic and began to ravish her chest. She clasped the column tightly for support as he brutally kneaded her lacerated breasts making her heart beat so that she might faint. Pitilessly, he dug strong fingers into the welts he had created, causing a surge of that same urgent, painful lust she had felt earlier. Animal blood. Dirt. Sweat. Goat skin. Incense. Warm breath on her neck.
His hands explored lower now, urging the lengths of her undertunic ever upwards until they swaddled her thighs. The cloak and drawstring pants simultaneously slid to the floor, leaving her openly on display. His grasp on her breasts tightened and she could feel the goatskin tickling the backs of her legs as he rubbed himself urgently against her. Despite the heat radiating from both their bodies, his hands were surprisingly cool as they clasped her buttocks. He held them there, motionless. The flesh where he touched tingled with an ancient song. She was screaming in her head, begging him to pummel, pound, punch her flesh with his fists. Outwardly, she rested her forehead on the marble column and controlled her rapid breathing, knowing she could not afford to be caught.
Eventually, he moved his hands away for a moment. He knelt on the floor behind her and she felt his fingers at the entrance to her own well-lubricated temple. He took some of her elixir on his fingers and spread it over her buttocks. With the palms of his hands he rubbed them furiously, creating a burning, a yearning, that went through the core of her womanhood and into her very soul. She could feel the pinkness that must be arising on her soft, regularly moisturised skin. Her face reddened with embarrassment at such intimate exposure to a stranger. Yet, the yearning, the burning, continued to deepen and spread throughout her being.
Her buttocks were almost blistered by the time he ceased his attack on her tender skin. Then she felt it. He slid the bloody februa in a long, threatening movement across her already sore cheeks, leaving a streak of dampness. She clenched her entire body even as she welcomed the significance of the act. There was a pause. A long pause. She felt him rise, then place his hands on her hips so he could reposition her. He pulled her out from the column, forcing her to bend over a little. Her hands could still clutch the welcoming marble for support. She knew that the februa was high in the air now. This would be the test. Not a protest. Not a murmur. Her heels lifted from the floor the first time it licked her bare skin. Knuckles clasped white. Still, not a sound. Again, he switched the goat thong against her already bruised flesh. Again she trembled mightily but did not make a sound.
Halia marvelled at his expertise even through the confused haze that had overtaken her senses. There was no crack as the februa made contact with her body. He never hit the same spot twice. He took his time between strokes, allowing the incredible fire to flare, radiate, ease, then turn to cinders. Swift, hard, raging lashes that caused her eyes to well with tears. As he continued, a certain calmness overtook her. She felt the pain but she didn’t. Her body floated towards the eternal flame. Blood from all the other hopeful women mingled with her own, creating a golden energy at each stinging salute. She sensed herself praying at the altar for the gift of motherhood. Then it ceased. His cool hands were resting softly on her bleeding cheeks. Her tears began to dry.
Gently, he again pushed her toward the great pillar. The goat skin was pressed against her once more, along with a familiar piece of flesh. She welcomed him to worship at her altar, desperate for him to produce his offerings. She braced herself, knowing the whole encounter would be over quickly now. The tip of his manhood was at her opening. She waited for it to slip in a little further and the sticky sacrifice to slide down her legs. He was entering her with taunting slowness, his hands urging her hips back towards him. She had never known the whole embrace to take so long. Suddenly, he thrust inside with greater intensity and a sharp pain almost made her shout. He quickly pulled out and turned her around, forcing her to meet his shocked eyes.
“Your husband has not yet broken through to your womb,” he whispered almost inaudibly. “There will be some pain. You must not make any sound.”
Her bare buttocks rested against the column now as he repositioned himself in front of her. This time, his hand clamped over her mouth and he entered her swiftly to the hilt. Agony as her raw buttocks rocked against the stone. Searing, blinding pain as something within her tore. Red, hot sparks flashing before her eyes. She wanted to submit to it and scream. His hand prevented her. His calm, clear, understanding eyes that never left her own prevented her.
Halia felt a faint pulse inside her as he began to rock slowly back and forth. Red sparks became white flashes then calming blue waves. She gripped his bare shoulders as she felt his shaft worshipping the depths where she had never felt a man before. His pace gradually quickened, but his eyes never left hers as a powerful sensation began to build in her loins. The burning welts on her buttocks and the more recent pain of having her insides torn became a dull ache. The sensation built and crested till she felt her altar gripping him mercilessly, praying for his sacrifice deep within her. He truly was a satyr, this man, with seemingly boundless desire. At last, she fell towards him, unable to support herself, her whole body limp. It was then that she felt his endless stream of offerings pouring into her womb and the light of a thousand candles coursed through her body.
“Marcus. Marcus. Where are you?” They both pulled apart and stiffened as the voices neared the temple.
“I must hurry to the Forum. More young women to whip,” he uttered with a hint of a smile before kissing her hard and rearranging his goat skin cover. Then he left. In a trance, Halia tidied her stained and bloodied clothing. There was blood on the pillar she noted. Blood from her virgin womb. Blood from her submission to the februa. The gods would surely smile.