You Know What She's Called? Ch. 01

Before all that happened, there was a period of peace, when the Republic of Rome was at the height of its glory, and the people shared a peaceful and prosperous way of life. But all that was threatened by the arrival of a powerful enemy. Led by a fearsome and invincible general by the name of Masturbal, the enemy prepared to cross the Alps and descend on Italy, leaving devastation in its wake. Little did anyone know that this was naught but the onset of the tumultuous years later dubbed by historians as the Second Pubic War.

Hearing the news of Masturbal's arrival, the Senatus Romanum was forced to take a hasty vote. A Praetor by the name of Biggus Dickus was to raise a new crack legion with the task of reinforcing a recently-acquired stronghold of Mediolanum. That meant a draft -- a lot of Roman Citizens had to be summoned immediately. This also meant several days of auguries, feasts, and religious ceremonies at the consecration of a new Legion: Legio LXIX Penetratio Invincibilis. A pious and chaste maiden eighteen years of age by the name of Incontinentia was present at the religious proceedings on behalf of the College of Vestals.

Known for her beauty, intelligence, innocence, and generous bosom, Incontinentia was primarily noted for her love of the modest and chaste life. Incontinentia had never engaged in carnal acts or illicit acts of self-pleasure. This was about to change.

***

I was there on Campus Martius for every ceremony, augury, and rite, though the one in which the Legion's banner was doused in bull's blood mixed with semen and blessed with haruspex. After that, the Praetor would take over. He spoke of glory and victories to the assembled men. By his side stood a certain effeminate questor called Atticus. Everyone knew what it meant. He was to become the Praetor's military bed-warmer. Roman soldiers could not take their families with them for obvious reasons -- the primary one being that this would just distract them from their duties. The same applied to Praetors -- but one of certain social status can always take a "companion." It's common knowledge that in such cases a lot of carnal debauchery is to be expected.

I can't help myself but feel the impure wetness in my loins and a bittersweet longing at the sight of all the men around me. One of these tall, broad-shouldered, proud warriors could have been my husband -- but I eschewed this possibility when I vowed to serve Vesta more than a decade ago and maintain my chastity throughout the entire term of thirty years. The Goddess of the Hearth is also the Guardian of Maidenhood. As I stay in her service, it is impossible for me to marry -- only after my thirty-year term is over. Of course, such honor carries considerable merit with it: as long as I remain in the College, no man can as much as begin to treat me poorly or improperly.

Also, the service will elevate me in the ranks of Roman society. Everyone wants to marry an ex-Vestal, who holds considerable respect among the priesthood and the pious population of Rome. My father is very much a man of means but of low standing and birth -- a craftsman -- so I'd have never made a suitable bride for one of the aristocrats and their sons. So, there was that.

It is unusual for a Vestal Virgin to ever leave Rome, but the circumstances are dire. The Goddess's magic, enhanced by our vows of chastity, bestows the thaumaturgical ability to one of our Virginal College, one that could turn the tide of any battle in our favor. However, we are used as a last resort, when the very walls of Rome are in danger -- because we are too precious to die (or, even worse, be captured). No one wants to risk losing a Vestal in the chaos of battle. Thus, one can appraise the fear and trembling of the dignified men of the Senate who decided that it was proper and necessary for me to leave the sacred Penus and venture out to meet the barbarian horde!

Responsible for Legio LXIX's sacrum and hearth, I am set to accompany five thousand armed men and slaves to Mediolanum. My tasks are clear: perform all rites and prayers, perform healing wonders on the wounded, and make the enemies suffer terrible ill luck. The most crucial aspect of my duties, however, is to avoid any carnal pleasure and stay a maiden. This makes even the tiniest flirtation with a male member of my extended escort party an unthinkable offense -- no matter how handsome and strong they are. I could afford no touching, fondling, or rubbing of my loins, for these are all indecent pleasures that lead to debauchery, licentiousness, and ruin -- not only my life but the morale of an entire Legion, and the fate of Rome.

Not to mention that if a man ever were to be found with me, he would be killed on the spot, guilty of incestum -- as my sacred status makes me a daughter of all the Romans. As for my fate in that unfortunate case... Well, let us not dwell on such details. Let me just say that I've heard terrible stories of women being buried alive along with the corpse of the male offender. Or of another somber ceremony in which my entire term of service would be declared void, one that never happened, and my body defiled and desecrated by hundreds upon hundreds of depraved men with unnaturally big members... Okay, my impressionable imagination might have taken over in those details -- I never heard anything of such a ritual, but it wouldn't have been such a great surprise, I admit. It would be like my worst... nightmares coming to life.

So here I am, immersed in my lonely thoughts, as four strong, muscular, well-oiled slaves carry the curtained litter I am sitting in. We have been traveling north for about a week already. Before this long road to Mediolanum, I had to spend three days on Campus Martius following the consecration of the new Legion, overseeing auguries, ceremonies, and sacrifices. Pontifex Maximus, the most important priest in Rome, a man in his late sixties by the name of Gnaeus Potentius Magnus -- he was also set to attend. But the campaign started off-season, and his advanced age means that he's a bit slow to keep up. He did his duty for a couple of sacrifices and ceremonies -- he participated in the aforementioned blessing of our Legion's Banner and surprised everyone with his virility and copious measure of seed when wrestling with the bull. However, this left him exhausted and spend, so he retired to his Domus on the Aventine. The next day, it was said, he was attending to some urgent duties in the Senate, and a replacement arrived on his behalf: one Cato, also a thaumaturge, like me.

I haven't cared to speak much to Cato, though both of us are vested in the business of performing wonders and potent rituals (albeit of a different variety). This young patrician with his boyish face seems far more interested in the company of two prostitutes -- the infamous Catumna sisters. They are both about thirty or even more years of age -- but are renowned to be particularly skillful in carnal delights. A young noble of Cato's rank could easily afford them for the entire three-day festivities -- or, dare I say, for the entire voyage to Mediolanum and back! The sisters do not seem to care much about the war we'd be facing on the frontiers -- they seem perfectly content in Cato's company, spending all their time in his tent or by his side. I suppose, the Legion has plenty of willing customers eager to shower them with gold and gift, were the Catumna so inclined.

My trusty body slave, Aula, accompanies the litter on foot. She attends to me on all matters, as we share the same quarters. A couple of years older than me, Aula is the closest thing I have to a friend and companion in this world. I have her take care of my laundry and make sure I got enough to eat and that I slept properly. I even permit her to give me a hand bath from time to time, which always relaxes my limbs, eases my soul, and gives me the energy I needed to perform all the ceremonies. She does not need a lot of orders.

Two lictors -- ceremonial guards -- complete my humble private escort. Their names are Chlamydius and Labia. A Vestal is entitled to only one lictor: and Labia has always been around with me. It was only recently that I found out Chlamydius would accompany me on this perilous journey as well. They are men of similar stature and build, but different characters -- Chlamydius is stoic and Labia is always flapping around. Right now, Labia is shouting some things to the soldiers: vulgar phrases I dare not consign to these pages. In my ten years in the Vestal College, Labia has always made my priestly duties more light-hearted with his humor and profanities, I admit.

A faint and guilty smile creeps up my lips as I hear the colorful and imaginative profanities my guard hurls at the would-be offenders: even the crassest words can bring amusement to one's day if they are coming from Labia's mouth. Perhaps I shall preserve some of his inventive verbiages in my memory: if only for posterity's sake.

"Move away, you dim-witted cunts! Move, you abject twats, move I said, or by Venus's cock, I shall cut your pathetic dicklets and you'll thank me for that. Don't you see who's coming? Vesta's daughter! You know what she's called? Incontinentia, Sacred Maiden of the Virgin Goddess. As much as lay your filthy gazes on her heavenly countenance, she will curse your balls to shrivel and fall off, and your tiny cocks will get up only when you are fucked in your gaping asses by the trunks of Masturbal's horny elephants!"

His intentions are pure -- after all, the common soldiery is not to approach a Vestal. However, I do believe that a kind word, a smile, and a blessing can sometimes suffice. As much as I'm thankful to Labia for being on guard of my precious chastity, I am also acutely aware that I am to spend months in the company of these men, however brutish and coarse they are. No need to antagonize them. And so, I decided to open the heavy crimson curtain of my litter just enough to show my face and see what the commotion is about.

The crowd of hapless recruits disperses before I get the chance to remember their faces. Labia stops his relentless cursing. Chlamydius nods discreetly. Before me extends an encampment where the newly assembled Legio LXIX will reside for the coming weeks, perfecting their martial skills in relentless drills. Aula speaks up:

"They say there's a new colony nearby, called Pisae. We will be here before spring will allow us to cross the Alps."

Always cunning and observant, Aula gathers information fast. I nod at her gratefully. She is good -- even better than I have at socializing: for she is far more sly than a priestess can allow herself to be. And her gossips always prove to be useful.

"No doubt this colony will be blessed by the presence of a Roman Vestal," I think to myself. I opt to leave the curtain opened a bit to let a gentle sea breeze caress my face -- there is barely any discomfort caused by the winter sun, blessing us from above with ample warmth. "Perhaps a chance for me to spread reverence before Vesta's mercy and piety, after all!"

I should be careful not to open the curtain too much though. My palla, an adorned linen cloak any respectable Roman matron or priestess always wears on top of her clothing, was cast away to avoid overheating. And the stola, a long tunic I wear beneath, does little to conceal the voluminous outline of my bosom. The idea of any man gazing at my form directly makes me uncomfortable. Besides, I notice at this moment that my tunic has ridden upwards, exposing the creamy-white skin of my legs almost up to my mid-thigh: another would-be scandal if anyone were to see me like that! For some reason, as cast my hand to my thighs to cover the indecency, my fingers stay to linger on my exposed flesh for a while. A gentle shiver runs up my thighs when my fingertips trace along the curves of my exposed form.

What am I doing? My awkward caresses halt. I am appalled by such improper desires. Through the gap in my curtain, Aula observes me thoughtfully -- but is smart enough to stay out of my issues for now. I believe it's in her character to rather observe before interfering, and she's good at doing that.

So, after covering myself properly and draping up the cloak, I push away the curtain entirely and allow the rays of the gentle sun to caress my face, take away all of these vile carnal yearnings, and cleanse me of them. It is so rare for me to appear in public with such carelessness: I notice the soldiers' faces turning around to witness this forbidden display of a Vestal's splendorous visage -- but for now, my selfless intent of bestowing a blessing of this curious throng makes these glances harmless to my soul.

With the tip of my right index finger, I form a sign in the air -- one known well as Vesta's Signum. It's a conjuration of serenity and tranquility: whenever performed, it casts away evil spirits and averts bad omens -- and in my mind, it could also avert sexual debauchery as well. I am adept at this particular thaumaturgy, which was the first one I learned ten years ago. An agitated whispering rises as the men notice the Signum being performed. No doubt it will elevate the name of the Goddess in the eyes of our Legion. The soldiers cast their gazes away, awestruck. Aula speaks in a hushed voice:

"You surely impressed them!"

With a generous smile, I listen intently to their murmurs, trying to catch an odd word or two. But I seem to fail to understand their dialect. Why would they now speak of blue balls, elephant trunks, and gaping abysses, of all things?

***

My tent was set up in the Principium, the center of the entire encampment, albeit a little away from other tents. It was only proper: for Vestals are meant to enjoy an aura of distinction even from the noblest of officers. Smaller tents -- one for my lictors, the other one for the slaves -- stand beside mine. The closest other tent in the vicinity, almost of exactly the similar size of mine, belongs to Cato, the pontifex who holds ceremonial authority over me. I hear women laughing from his tent -- no doubt, the accursed Catumna sisters are enjoying yet another night of licentious amusement at the hands of this wretched pontifice! And he's meant to oversee my holy rites and aid me in magic! Peeking out from my tent, I see one of his slaves coming back from an errand to fetch him a supply of wine amphorae -- the rascal takes the wine ceremonial supply although he has enough money to buy it at the market in Pisae. Shaking my head in disgust, I crawl back into the cozy and warm privacy of my accommodations.

Neither male slaves, nor Chlamydius and Labia dare to enter my tent proper, so all the furniture and amenities are dutifully set up by Aula. I have been craving to enjoy a proper bath since we departed from Rome: I admit, as much as I did not care or want to acknowledge it, I feel sticky and uncomfortable under my garments. During the week-long march, the soldiers enjoyed a quick dip in a river here or there: but of course, one couldn't even begin to insinuate a suggestion of me bathing anywhere in the vicinity of men bathing and gawking at each other's backsides and phalluses.

Well, the Praetor Biggus Dickus at least ensured I brought a proper bath basin of bronze all the way here: one that allows my limbs to rest when I am immersed in the warm water. With a relieved sigh, I relax at ease after my loyal slave fills the basin. My tunic comes off. Then off goes my thin loincloth.

My naked form glimmers as the water submerges it slowly -- I seem to enjoy a different comfort altogether when no cloth adorns it. Soon, I forget my modest shame and start lathering myself all over. I cup one of my ample breasts: not much like the lean limbs on the rest of my body, my bosom has developed into shapely abundance. Even Pontifex Maximus himself was rumored by other Vestals of secretly having lusted for this forbidden splendor of mine! Or, at least, Aula told me as much, though I have no reason to mistrust her.

She is quick to disrobe as well -- as a diligent slave, she doesn't want any water splashes or soap spills staining her garments. I glance over her muscular form as she steps into the basin to aid me in my cleansing routine. Her modest build lacks all of the round splendor my own has -- where I seem to bloom all over into generous proportions of feminine beauty, Aula seems more like a lithe boy, except that she is clearly feminine and gorgeous in her own way. Where I have a heavy, swaying bosom -- she has pert breasts that do not even seem to exist; where I have round, plump buttocks -- she is lean; where my Mound of Venus is devoid of any hair, scraped clean as any civilized and noble woman's should be, hers is amply covered in thick, coarse, dark curls befitting a barbarian...

Is it even proper, as her Mistress, to even compare my nakedness to my servant's thusly? I cast my eyes down in utter shame. Aula gives me a mischievous, girlish smile: I doubt she feels the same shame I experience while my eyes gander all over her nude form -- as much as I find it difficult not to look at her glistening breasts, adorned by two tiny, dark, and hard tips...

My servant begins soaping my curves, my legs, and arms, applying luscious lotions after that to ease my skin. She touches my bosom ever-so-delicately -- her fingers just grazing over the tips of my nipples, which exhibit unusual heaviness. She moves her hands slowly, lazily, applying lotions to my entire breasts. Surely, she's just being careful to lather up the entire surface of them, and I don't find it in me to object to that.

Her hands move lower, massaging and caressing my round Mound of Venus -- no hair on it to obfuscate her gentle strokes. Her touch is warm, it leaves my skin all clean and glistening. It even moves a touch lower, skirting along my virginal folds and up between my buttocks. Again, my faithful slave is just being very careful, I reckon. There's nothing amiss or improper of the touch -- so delicate that it is even soothing: her touch releasing a long-held strain, relaxing something deep inside me, giving my flesh unprecedented peace of mind.

For some reason, my knees become weak, and I allow myself to slide down lower into the warm waters -- with Aula's careful help. She has to support my wet head as I am immersing my face down as well. As my head resurfaces, I open my eyes to the sight of Aula's nether region -- the same coarse pubic curls wet and glistening from the soap spills, hiding a partly open cleft beneath. I inhale her intoxicating and earthy scent -- one I have never noticed before! My mind starts swimming, detached from notions of reality and propriety, much as my body has been in the past half an hour. An exploratory curiosity overtook my soul. Her parts look so different from my own, which I rarely ever behold when bathing. Perhaps I just need to peek down to see better. My hand starts wandering towards somewhere forbidden...

"May I? Let me wash you there, Domina," comes Aula's apologetic voice. Her hand moves under the waters, her fingers grazing my soft folds, asking permission. With a weak nod and another shameful sigh, I part my legs wider, welcoming her hands down where my private part is. Hasn't she washed there already? I don't want to remember. I need something to hold onto, lest I sink deeper, out of Aula's reach -- and my hand finds support against my loyal slave's soft and firm thigh. Aula guides my head carefully -- holding my back with her strong arm, she assists me in relaxing in a semi-seated position, with my loins all open and vulnerable to her touch. Her lathering down there seems more... firmer now. Why are my hips and buttocks arching up involuntarily? It makes no sense to me.

Once again I inhale a deep waft of Aula's private scent, my hand clutching at her buttock hard now. Her cleft looks much more open and inviting now, her folds a touch rosier and swollen. Aula moves her leg further, granting me wider support against it: my nose is dangerously close to her private, coarse, glistening part: there I go, inhaling deeply once more. My heart flutters as my eyes cross and lose focus. All notions of shame and propriety abandon my mind as my nostrils drink in the intoxicating scent. Her private part opens before me like a forbidden flower -- and with this thought, I feel a sudden jolt of purest bliss coming from between my open, thoroughly soaped loins, sending its tingling sparks all over my entire self. I moan silently, feeling wave after wave of utter and primal bliss wash over me as I am embraced by the warm waters inside my bronze bath basin.