Caesar's Captive Women of Gaul

I am a captive woman from Aquitani, part of what the Romans call Gallia, selected from among hundreds of other captives from my tribe to be offered to the Roman Caesar. My best friend, Velda, taken in the battle we fought together at the river Garonne—a woman I thought our tribe's loveliest—was among those not chosen. That meant shoved out to the waiting soldiers of the Roman legion.

That night, soldiers returned Velda, half dragging and carrying her naked body to the prison compound--the rude hut and fenced area for the women prisoners. (We are still in Gallia.) They shoved her through the open gate as I ran toward her. They had permitted me only a ragged band wrapped around my loins, none for my small pointy breasts, which scarcely quivered as I ran toward Velda.

Released, her legs seemed boneless. She pitched forward onto her face in the dirty straw of the yard. I reached her, knelt, and gently rolled her onto her back. So beautiful... her legs long, belly contoured with muscle, big breasts with deep brown nipples rising and falling as she fought for breath.

She opened her eyes, blinking—large dark eyes now gazing upward unfocused. But she saw me. She shook her head slowly.

"What, Velda?" I asked.

"So many. All day. Again, then again. Big men... pounding... Many dozen. I could not count how many. See?"

The slender long legs as though with great effort parted. Her mount's thick hair was clotted with dried semen. In a kind of disbelief, I reached down and as gently as I could parted her lips. Still, she gave a cry of pain. And then, I saw the inner flesh, bright red, grotesquely swollen so that her slit could not be seen.

Velda said, "They used me... heavy, crushing me, so hard to breathe. And then, stabbing stabbing down there...I had vowed not to beg..." Her head in its nest of long flaxen hair rocked back and forth as in denial.

I could say nothing but "Let me get water." I shot to my feet, running for the hut.

When I returned with the gourd, spilling a little in my haste, and knelt by Velda, she said: "They did not take you... Good, good..."

"But I am skinny, bony...my breasts small..."

"If they come tomorrow... I will not live, not another day. Do not want to live. Eleanor...help me. Help me. Not tomorrow... not again..."

In darkness, as the others slept, I crept over to her, knelt, they stretched beside her. I put my arm over her, hugging her. I touched my lips to hers, drew my fingers through her long hair. I whispered: "When we were girls...how we laughed...we ran. And down at the river...so excited...the men might see us..."

"Yes, I remember."

In the way of our people, I gently shifted Velda's body, rolling her over until she lay prone, her face in the straw. She knew. She did not resist.

And swinging my leg over her waist, I leaned forward, my palms against the back of her head. Then, I heaved myself half up, throwing my weight on my arms, my hands, crushing her face into the straw, holding her. At first, knowing, she did not resist. A minute or two later, the body's automatic panic for air seized her and she struggled wildly. I pushed harder and wept tears that fell on my friend's naked back. Soon, she lay still. I waited, as we know to wait, until my Velda forever was beyond recall.

Again, I shifted her until she lay supine. I leaned forward to kiss the still lips one final time. I untied my own sole rag from around my loins, laid it across her face, covering her lips. And then, I placed her hands on either side of her head and closed each hand around an end of the rag—as though her own hands held the cloth over her mouth.

It was a poor ruse, but I had no other. Perhaps the soldiers, with many girls to drag into the daylight for their pleasure, would shrug or laugh and pass my Velda.

How had I escaped her fate? I am a tall woman, like most women of Gallia, with long legs shaped of the leanest hard muscle, hips narrow, belly and torso stretched and tightly contoured, the hillocks of breasts high on my chest pointed into nipples, long neck, a face too bony for beauty, and braided flaxen hair falling almost to my waist.

I learned soon that among the legion's officers a kind of connoisseur of women represented the tastes of Caesar in captive concubines. And that many laughed when he selected me as one of the "finalists" for presentation to Caesar. As too special to be thrown to the troops.

And so, in days and weeks of daily marches along endless stretches of road from Gallia to Rome, I was "safe," though my loins were wrapped in a rag that only partially hid the riot of untrimmed hair at my belly and my breasts bare. Men—how many? Hundreds cast their eyes upon me, assessing--some grinning, some with lust in their gaze—but I was destined for the palace and not to be touched.

They fed me well, even forced me to eat more, so that even with daily marches, I added flesh. Some nights, the centurion whose taste had singled me out for Caesar came into the hut where the women now were chained together. He would stand before me, frowning, and then reach out to squeeze a breast until my nipple swelled out. And bend sometimes to thrust a dry, abrasive finger far up my cunt. And often, seizing my hair, bend back my head, frowning down at my face.

He was not above corruption. For, one evening, he loosened his girdle and sword and let them drop, so that at the level of my face I was gazing at his manhood, now erect, its head almost purple.

Seizing my hair behind my head, he dragged my face toward him and at the same time thrust his big member toward my lips. How to resist in chains, half-naked, a captive woman now 1000 leagues from home, spared the rape that drove poor Velda to suicide?

I tilted up my face with my lips open. My hands free, I reached to take his jutting penis and guide it to my tongue. My other hand cupped the big hairy sac and fondled it, feeling the shape of each separate soft walnut.

When he came, unnecessarily holding my face crushed to his belly, his whole member down my throat, I gulped hard even as my tongue teased the last drop of cum from him. And then, I my tongue cleaned his fat, hot, slick berry until with remarkable gentleness, he slipped himself from lips.

For a few moments, almost as though tenderly, his fingers played with my nipples, which had become long and stiff. "You like it," he said. And he walked from the hut.

***

I had been marched up to Rome in a long file of chained women walking behind chariots along the broad, paved Appian way. The procession, I guessed, was a mile long with soldiers, tribal men and women captives, wagons of loot, marching legions and striding officers, and leading them the chariots. On either side, crowds—men, women, boy, girls—had come to celebrate the triumph and gaze on us. Now, I had no cover for my nakedness. Nor could I lift my hands to cup my breasts, or lower then to cover my mound, because my wrists were chained at my back. All looked upon our nakedness with faces sometimes grinning, sometimes dull, sometimes covetous. Only occasionally did eyes linger on my breast's my belly's hair, my face; there were so many other naked women. But sometimes a man, woman, or boy would gesture at us, hands on their own chest pantomiming stiff fingers strumming our nipples or hips thrusting at us.

And then, the streets of Rome. Exceeding any dream, any dreams of any girl of the forests of Gallia. Nothing I could have imagined from the reports and tales I had heard, time and again, from those who had seen Rome. Hill upon hill, broad ways and vast plazas, all set in smooth granite and lined with great structures of dazzling white or cream, much stone itself carved with shapes of men and animals and gods.

In the palace of Caesar, high on a hill reached by long marble steps, the women of the tribes and I inhabited a great, high-ceilinged, lushly carpeted hall carpeted with furs. We talked, as our captors surely knew that we would. We wept. We wondered how the Caesar might use us and talked of our women's parts, how we could endure what was to come.

But we no longer were naked. To expose a woman in public she first must be wearing clothes. We had been wrapped as gifts in white silk tunicas, beneath them loin clothes and breast clothes. For audience with Caesar, we wore, too, over our tunics, stolas fastened at our shoulders and secured with a girdle, and red or white sandals with soft straps wrapped around our lower legs.

Now, standing with the others, naked but not chained, in a line that our captors policed to keep perfect order, my gaze swiveled to the left, where doors swung wide and a remarkably tall man in a purple tunic, sword and scabbard at his hip, walked in past the outside guards.

As he approached us, I saw that accompanying him was the officer who had selected us while still in Gallia and had sampled my cunt and mouth nights on the march southward. I had talked, now, to other women who related to my surprise that only two of them had been "visited" on the march to Rome.

At the most leisurely pace, the two walked down the line. Caesar ogled each woman, starting at her sandals and ending by gazing steadfastly into her face. All were beautiful with long flaxen hair, some braided, some wild, some with the woman warrior's expression of challenge, defiance, others softer, even smiling. As Caesar boldly stared at the defeated warriors, some held his gaze, unwavering, others looked down with long lashes half shuttering their eyes.

One woman I knew, Dahlia, a leader of wild charges—spear raised, sword at the ready, full breasts often bare—stared back at Caesar with a look that held nothing of the slave's surrender.

Caesar spoke calmly not looking away from her. The role of the man with him became clear. He translated into our tongue. "Strip off your garments. Quickly!"

For a few moments, Dahlia did not move, still gazing into Caesar's face. I trembled for her, wondering what punishment, what violence, now would break out. But then, her hands flew to her shoulder ties, tossing off the stola, then to her girdle, which dropped to the floor. Now she whipped the tunic over her head and stood only in loin and breast cloths. Her hands went behind her and first we saw her big full breasts, nipples upthrust, and then her shaggy, spreading flaxen belly hair. She did all this without changing expression in the least, as though she were alone, and, when finished, stood straight, chin raised, eyes calm.

Caesar spoke again and the officer translated: "Turn around. Bend, touch the floor, spread your legs as wide as possible."

Dahlia obeyed as though carrying out a field drill. In a moment, her wide buttocks faced Caesar. The cheeks were spread to the limit as she parted her feet, wearing now nothing but her sandals. But the officer stepped forward, standing to one side of her, a hand on either cheek of her ass, and spread her a little farther apart.

Caesar slipped something from inside his tunic. We a long ivory dildo, curved, adorned along its length, perhaps 10 inches, with elaborate carvings, and ending in a bulbous ivory head big as a plum. He handed it to his officer.

The man stepped behind Dahlia, but to the side, to leave Caesar's view unobstructed. None of the women standing in the line could see what the two men saw, which was the woman rectum and below it the pouched-back cunt lips and slit—all heavily haired as are the women of our tribe.

"Do not move!" said the officer.

Placing a palm on Dahlia's lower back, as though to steady her, he peered into her exposed woman's place. Then, the end of the dildo disappeared into her crack; it paused as he positioned it, and then, we simultaneously heard Dahlia gasp and emit a sharp cry and saw the length of the dildo vanish into her crack. After a moment, the officer halted, placed the flat of his hand on the end of the dildo, and shoved hard so the dildo in its entirely vanished from sight.

We heard a groan that became louder, punctuated by gasps, and then a high-pitched rising whine of protest that rose and fell as though a wailing siren. Dahlia abruptly began to straighten up, caught herself, and instead began waggling her broad ass. Her feet lifted and came down, stamping in her agony. Her hair flew back and forth as she shook her head in disbelief. The officer had withdrawn the dildo several times and drove it home, again, the rough carvings scraping Dahlia's tender orifice.

At last, she cried, as though the words at last were forced out of her, "No! Please! No more! Nooaaw!" Her ass wiggled still more frantically, she stamped her feet, and flung her flaxen hair to and fro, protesting what was being done to her.

I felt myself become light-headed, swaying. I had turned from the scene, but still heard. I saw the other women, too, avert their faces.

At last, they slipped the monster dildo out of her cunt. "Stand up, turn," said the officer. Dahlia slowly straightened, turned, her body automatically held erect, her breasts outthrust, her chin up. Her eyes went to Caesar's. After a few moments, she breathed softly, in our tongue, "I would like to have your penis in my mouth."

I heard. My heart did not sink. I understood what the Romans did not. Celtic women in battle are fierce; the Romans view them as mad women, often partially naked, crazed with battle lust. The typical woman of my tribe in unarmed combat can defeat the typical Roman soldier, tearing him apart, seemingly unaware of pain, screaming...

But when not in battle, the Aquitani woman faces her foes like a woman, with guile, wiles, proffered favors, and gestures of submission. And at the right moment, she strikes not like the boar, our animal deity, but like the serpent at your feet. And she strikes upward at where manhood lives. Perhaps she has learned this from the druids...

The officer turned and translated to Caesar. He shook his head, turned, continuing along the file of women. His appraisal was lazy, as though what his gaze left no need to strip a woman.

He came to me and stopped. I kept my gaze lowered. The picture of acquiescence. Caesar turned to his officer and spoke. Of course, I did not understand. I saw the officer shrug, then smile. He said something and waved his hand toward me.

Caesar stepped closer. His body pressed mine. His fingers took my chin and lifted my face, the mildest smile on his face. I could smell his breath.

His hands went down and rested on my hips, then travelled upward, tracing my curves. At my breasts, the hands stopped. Powerful fingers groped me through my clothes, squeezing my small breasts. I waited, withdrawn into remoteness, offering no sign of resistance—nor any response.

As I planned, I did not provoke him. But my lack of response angered him. He snapped out words I did not understand, turning to his officer.

The man leaped forward. His hands took the garment at my shoulders and ripped it asunder. Then, he tore off the tunic and let it drop. I struggled to keep my balance. Now, I wore only the loin cloth and breasts cloth. I was breathing hard, belly and breasts heaving.

Instantly, his fingers dived beneath my breast cloth and ripped it off so violently that I stumbled forward. The officer's hand stopped me, shoved me back, and his fingers were inside my loin cloth. I braced my hips as he tore it from my body, and I stood before Caesar naked.

He nodded, expression sedate, examining me. I stood erect, as I knew I must, and lifted my chin. I pulled my shoulders back, so my breasts rose and stuck out.

Caesar fingers diddled my little nipples, which stiffened at his touch. I knew I must respond. I tilted back my head, eyes closed, and breathed a moan of pleasure. I felt myself stiffen more and then fingers took each nipple and stretched it. I almost stumbled forward; the fingers pulled hard. I let myself gasp, my lips open.

Then, the fingers departed. I opened my eyes. Caesar said a few words, with a gesture at the curling, sprawling swatch of hair at my belly.

I discovered only later that evening that he had said, "Get rid of that hair that conceals her cunt."

(To be continued, if readers wish.)