The Emperor's Concubine

Chapter Two-1

Chapter Two

Before that there was an entirely different development, one which surprised me greatly. While I was working in the kitchen on the first day, there was a lot of noise, from the clatter of pans and the chatter of the girls and the male slaves who came in to flirt with them. Then suddenly the room fell silent. I looked round and, standing in the door, was a tall, blonde woman, clad in a long white tunic, with her hair bound up with gold thread and jewels. I knew this must be the mistress of the house. She spoke to Drusilla, with an expression that suggested displeasure. Drusilla humbled herself, bowing, making apologies. Then the woman noticed me. I understood her to ask if I was the new slave. Drusilla nodded. She said, “Bring her,” turned and left the room. Drusilla took my arm and hustled after her.

The woman seated herself in what was obviously her boudoir. The walls were hung with silk, there was a polished mirror standing on a pretty table. Hairbrushes and pots of paint were on the table too, and against the wall was a wooden couch, upholstered in soft leather. It was a more luxurious room than any I had yet seen, though one day I would see palaces of surpassing splendour. The woman made a gesture dismissing Drusilla and beckoned me forward. She motioned to me to take off my tunic, so I did so and stood naked before her. She looked me up and down with what I thought was a strange expression. On the one hand it was quite hostile, and yet I perceived something else in her eyes, something I could not yet put a finger on. She made me turn round, and I felt her eyes assessing my back, my bottom, my legs. Then I had to turn back.

“My name is Flavia,” she said. “I am your mistress. Do you understand?”

I nodded.

“Do not cross me,” she said. “You will find me strict and demanding, and severe when I punish.”

I said nothing. She stooped and picked up the tunic I had let fall to the ground, holding it disdainfully between finger and thumb, as if it might infect her, then threw it into the corner. She went to a large chest in the corner and rifled through the clothing it contained, then drew out a tunic. Unlike the skimpy garment I had arrived in, this one was ankle-length and the neckline cut high. It was made of heavy wool and coloured grey. There was nothing about it that was pretty or dainty, and I instinctively knew why I was being made to wear this: so that my physical attractions would be largely hidden. Clearly the hostility she manifested was on account of her jealousy of her husband, though of course it was in vain. He had bought me for my physical appeal; covering it up would not deprive him of the enjoyment of it. Nevertheless I put on the tunic without hesitation. I would give Flavia no excuse to punish me.

She dismissed me, but the next day I was called back to her room. It seemed that I was henceforth to be her personal slave, the one who attended to all her personal needs, keeping her clothes clean, tidying, keeping her looking beautiful. That she was indeed beautiful there was no doubt, but it was a cold, even chilling beauty. I never once saw her smile. I wondered what sort of life she had with her husband. Did they ever laugh together? Did they enjoy intimacy? That I rather doubted, since he was always so ready to have his c**k serviced by me. I wondered if she knew about that; it seemed from her attitude to me that she more or less guessed it. I wondered, if she felt that way, why she wanted to keep me that close. Perhaps if I was under her eye, I was not on my knees with her husband’s c**k stuck down my throat. But I suspected there was something else, though it was a while before I found out what it was.

One of my duties was to attend her while she bathed, which she did every morning. I should say that in my opinion the Romans have an absolute obsession with keeping clean. Like anyone, I don’t care to be close to dirty or smelly bodies. But I do not come from a culture where a daily bath is de rigeur. I don’t think my people are unclean- we rinse our face, our genitals and so forth when we wake up. But total immersion, as is the Roman custom, is simply not usual with us, and I think not necessary or even healthy, unless your work is dirty or the weather especially hot. Otherwise, a little washing and good perfume should suffice.

Every day I had to heat enough water for Flavia to lie in. Then I had to soap her body as she stood up, including under her arms, her feet, and between her legs. When I performed the latter task she would stare at me, as if daring me to make a false move, perhaps by offering a suggestive gesture. If I did, I felt sure she would thrash me. As it was, I received regular slaps to the face for even the most minor slips or infringements. A real offence would doubtless have incurred a cruel punishment, but I was careful; I avoided her gaze and controlled myself rigorously.

One of my duties after her bath was to shave her. Roman women are fussy about hair removal. In my country girls remain natural. But in Rome it seemed it was necessary for a respectable woman to have her legs shaved daily, similarly under her arms, and for her pubic hair to be, if not shaved off completely, then trimmed very short and shaped. Performing this task brought me in close contact with her most intimate parts. I should say that when I first came into her household I had no experience of s****l contacts between women. Of course in my early adolescence I had a couple of girlfriends with whom I was very friendly, and we would often hug and kiss. But it wasn’t s****l, not really. Later I was to explore the full range of pleasures obtainable from another woman’s body. But up to this time I was innocent both of the act and of the desire. I had never looked at women naked, nor ever thought to do so.

But there was something about Flavia that disturbed me. I confess that occasionally I was driven to sneak a glance at her when she wasn’t watching me. She had what was ostensibly a very attractive body; she was tall, and graceful, one of those women people call “handsome”, Her legs were long and well-shaped, her belly flat, her bottom nicely rounded and her breasts of medium size but very firm and with strikingly large, brown n*****s. Her face was regular, with clear, grey eyes, and a nicely curved mouth. It was only her expression, almost invariably discontented, that repelled.

However, as the days passed, I became aware of subtle changes in her manner. Instead of directing an intimidating stare at me, she seemed to become nervous, avoiding my gaze if I should dare to return her look. At first, she had showed her naked body to me with indifference, as if I was too far below her notice to bother with modesty. But increasingly she seemed a little shy, only revealing herself at the last moment as she slid into her bath. At times, though I could hardly believe the change, she appeared almost coquettish, revealing or hiding herself with a little smile. The services she required of me became more intimate; not only did I have to wash her, but she wanted a complete body massage after her bath, including attention to the most private parts. I think what she really wanted was for me to masturbate her, but she didn’t quite have the nerve to demand it, though in my experience most Romans have no shame whatever in front of their slaves. And yet at the same time her manner became stricter. She would snap at me with no provocation, and her slaps became more frequent and harder.

And then one day it happened. She upset a bowl of scented water while I was brushing her hair as she sat naked on a stool. She turned on me, slapped my face and then said, speaking harshly. “Now look what you made me do, you clumsy little b***h! Clear it up at once!” This was blatantly unfair, as she well knew It was her fault entirely. She stared at me, challenging me to defy her. Her eyes were flashing. And suddenly I was struck, as if in a blinding flash, by what was going on. She wanted me to refuse her authority; not so that she could punish me, but because she herself wanted to submit. It was clear to me what all the teasing and flirting had been about, and why she had been so nasty. She wanted to provoke me into fighting back, and then she would surrender. For a second or two I asked myself if I was reading this right. The consequence of being wrong, of directly challenging her, might be grave. It might even cost me my life. But I have always been able to read people’s minds when it came to s*x. Instinctively I always know what they really want. And so I stood my ground.

“No,” I said. “You pick it up. It’s not my fault.”

For a moment she looked at me in astonishment, as if she could not believe her ears. Perhaps she did not expect such open defiance. Then she blushed a deep red. “What did you say?” she whispered.

“I said,” I repeated, “that I am not going to clear it up. That’s your job. Pick up the bowl, mop up the water and then I’ll punish you.”

I was absolutely convinced this was what she wanted, even if she did not yet know it herself. She continued to stare at me, still blushing. Then slowly she bent down and picked up the bowl. She made an effort at mopping up the water, then stood sheepishly, as if she had no idea what might happen next.

Come here,” I said. She approached me nervously. I grabbed her hair and pushed her down over the stool on which she had been sitting. I picked up her hair brush. “You will not speak to me like that again,” I said. I began to smack her bottom with the brush. She squealed and tried to wriggle free, but I held her hair tightly, twisting it to make her keep still and smacking her several more times. I could see her bottom was turning red. I wondered whether to press my luck and go a little further. Nothing venture, nothing gained, I said to myself; I’m in too deep to go back now. I pulled her off the stool and onto the floor on her knees. Standing over her, still holding her hair tight, twisting back her head, I used my other hand to pull up my tunic, exposing my cunt. I pushed it into her face, forcing her right into my groin, grinding my cunt against her mouth.

“Lick my cunt, you haughty b***h,” I said. And she did. I made her continue until I came, my thighs around her face, gripping her as I shuddered with my orgasm. Then I let her go.

“If you are very, very good in future, I shall let you do that again,” I said. “And if you do it well, I may give you a little pleasure for yourself, such as befits a little slut like you. But make no mistake, you will earn it.”

With that, I turned and left the room, feeling suddenly terrified that I might have signed my own death warrant. For the rest of the evening I lived in trembling that I would be summoned and severely punished. But nothing happened. The next morning I went to Flavia at the usual time. She avoided my gaze, as if she did not trust herself to make contact with me. I decided that it was time to be nice. I have learned since then what I seemed to know from instinct, that what submissives want and need is the strictest discipline and yet tender affection as well. They need to be punished, but they need to feel valued, cherished, to be the centre of attention. I drew close to her and put one arm around her neck, drawing her close, then another round her waist, pulling her belly towards mine. I pressed my groin into her, then I kissed her mouth. I could feel her trembling.

“Are you going to be a good girl?” I asked her.

“Yes,” she whispered. “Just show me how.”

I put my hand between her legs, squeezing her cunt under the thin tunic she wore. She groaned.

“I am going to ask you a question,” I said. “I need an honest answer. If I think you are lying to me that will be the end of it. But be assured, there is no correct answer. Just tell me the truth.”

“Very well,” she said.

“Tell me,” I said. “Did you masturbate last night? Did you make yourself come?”

There was silence for a moment. Then she whispered yes.

“Such a dirty little slut,” I said sweetly. “You know you must be punished for that.”

“Must I?” she said, looking up at me.

“From now on, you will never come without my explicit permission.”

“But you did not tell me that last night,” she protested. “There was no prohibition in place.”

“It’s retrospective,” I said. I was enjoying this.

“That’s not fair,” she said.

“Fairness has nothing to do with it,” I replied. “We have moved well beyond that.” I slapped her face, not just once but several times, stinging blows. “Don’t argue with me. Ever,” I said, and slapped her some more. “Now bend over,” I ordered.

I intended to be strict with her from the beginning. It’s what they always tell teachers in school: start as you mean to go on, and the same applies when dealing with submissives. I needed to make it clear to her that my word was law and that I required absolute obedience. Clearly nervous, she bent over, putting her hands on the stool, bending at the waist. I looked around for something to use. I couldn’t see the hairbrush, then I thought of my footwear. I was wearing leather sandals, heavy ones, well-made. I took one off and held it in my hand. It felt like it would do the job.

“Lift up your tunic, all the way up to your waist,” I ordered. I paused for a moment, taking in the shapely form of her ass. Then I raised my arm and brought it down smartly, striking Flavia full across both buttocks. She staggered slightly and squealed.

“Be quite,” I said. “And keep still, or we shall start again.”

I raised my arm again. This time I hit her on one buttock solely, the left side. Then I spanked her again, on the right side. She made half-suppressed little noises, and after the third blow hopped a little from one foot to the other. Then she put her hand on her bottom and rubbed it.

“Take your hand away,” I said severely. “Don’t you ever put a hand there while receiving discipline.”

“Sorry,” she muttered. It was music to my ears. I carried on spanking, giving her twelve strokes in all. I hit her hard; I didn’t want her to think this was just a silly game which she need not take seriously. At last I lowered my arm and put my sandal back on. I rubbed her bottom with my hand and was delighted to feel it warm, almost hot. It was bright pink, and I could see some light bruises forming. I slid a hand between her legs and felt her cunt, slipping my finger a little way inside. As I expected, she was wet.

“What’s this?” I said. “Are you the sort of slut that gets wet from a spanking?”

There was silence. Doubtless she was too ashamed to reply. I kept my hand there, my fingers pushing further in, then spreading some of the wetness over the lips of her cunt and upwards to her clit. It was already somewhat swollen, and when I touched her I heard a sharp intake of breath. I began to circle it with my finger, slowly at first, then finding rhythm, building her arousal. She began to moan softly, and her knees shook a little. I could tell she was ready to come. But she needed to be taught who was in charge. Suddenly I took my hand away. I heard her groan with disappointment.

“I told you not to move and not to make a sound,” I said. “If you want me to allow you pleasure you must do as you are told.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, in a voice so low I could hardly hear. “Please. Please, do it some more.”

“Time for your bath,” I replied. I knew I had her then. She craved the joy of orgasm, and she knew I had the power and the skill to give her what she needed. But if she did not submit to me, she would be denied. Subsequently, I found that submissives often secretly want to be forbidden s****l release. They may whine and plead for an orgasm, but they enjoy the state of perpetual horniness, and more than anything they like to be controlled. They would rather the psychological satisfaction of prostrating themselves before their master or mistress, even if they are condemned to seemingly endless s****l frustration, than be granted easy and instant relief.