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Glorious Enslavement
Anya Richards


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 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?




Glorious Enslavement

Anya Richards











www.spice-books.co.uk (http://www.spice-books.co.uk)




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Chapter One


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.

Goddess, be with me.

The front of his garment stirs and he adjusts the pleats to hide his rising phallus. Does his body hear mine and anticipate the moment of joining, that overwhelming instance of surrender? Looking up, I meet his gaze and amazement dawns in his knowing eyes, quickly to be replaced by the full sunrise of desire.

His hand falls as he steps away and I lower my eyes again. For a long moment I hear nothing but the harsh rush of his breath, the fluttering beat of my heart. Low in my belly thrums the surety, put there by the Goddess’s own hand, that this man, and only he, is my destiny. But all I can do is wait and pray, making myself small, folding in on the sacred, trying not to let fear grow.

Without a word he moves on, but when he leaves the slave pens I go with him, pulled along by a servant holding the rope around my wrists. Each footfall on the stone paved road to his hillside home is a paean of thanksgiving to the Goddess.

Master and slave have been united.

Destiny will not be denied.

The small room I am put in is little more than a cell, yet it is dry and warm. Bathed, given a fresh tunic and sandals, I am locked away from the rest of the household. My hands are now unbound, but the rope remains in the corner as a message, a warning. It is not necessary. There is no place else I would wish to be.

Looking out through the tiny window set high upon the wall, I see the moon cloaked by swiftly drifting clouds. Home at last, I can finally remove the golden band from within the hidden recesses of my body and seek a place to hide it where none will find. It is all I have of my former life: all I need. By allowing me to keep it, by leading me here, the Goddess reaffirms Her guardianship and strengthens my faith.

There is a low couch for me to sleep on, a rough wooden stool and a small bowl with water. On arrival at the house, the beauty of cream stone walls and pillars, the verdant garden and intricate tiled floors dazzled my mind, filled me with pride at my new master’s wealth and power. Yet all those things are unimportant in comparison to the aura and strength of the man who now owns me.

As I remove my tunic, questions swirl a constant inner refrain. Will he come to me tonight? Or was I alone in feeling the instinctive pull of desire?

He comes; cautious yet too curious to stay away. Just inside the door he pauses, watches me for a long moment. A tiny contraction of his brows hints at momentary surprise. It is late, the house quietly slumbering around us. Perhaps, knowing fear often leads to exhaustion, he expected to find me sleeping, too.

Naked, I lie on my side, knees drawn up close to my chest. Partially covered by the curtain of my hair, I watch him in return.

Slowly he advances, stopping only to place his lamp upon the stool and remove the linen garment covering the finely sculpted muscles of chest and belly and thighs. A shudder tightens my womb as his beauty is displayed in the flickering golden light. His skin is darker than my own and his hair, black as a crow’s wing, waves back from a high forehead. Despite the obvious luxuriousness of his life he shows no sign of soft living or dissipation. Lean and solid, he moves with the easy assurance of one accustomed to utilizing his strength.

The draw of the arcane pulls him closer, nearer to where I wait. Already his cock stands proud, hard and smooth as the stone pillars in the courtyard beyond. Instinctively I crave his touch, his possession, his dominance over my flesh.

I crave his pleasure.

He parts my hair, pushing it back over my shoulder. Cool air flows over me and my nipples pucker. With a low hum, he succumbs to their enticement.

As his fingers close around one I roll on to my back, laying myself open to his touch.

Show me what you need, Master. Take all I have to give.

The corners of his lips curve briefly up, and my heart sings to know I have pleased him even in so small a way. His hand is hot upon my skin, exploring the curves and fullness of my breast. With a murmur he bends his head, and I strain up to meet his lips.

He is my master as he suckles my breast, fingers shaping the other nipple to aching arousal. A hot wave of passion arches my back off the couch and flows molten into my cunt. His fingers part the cleft between my thighs, dipping into the wet pulse of the temple. When his palm presses on my mound, a throb of near release vibrates in my womb.

Shifting, I reach for his phallus, feel the Goddess awaken in me as my fingers wrap around it and he groans: a long, soft expression of enjoyment. Like a thing alive, separate from him, mine alone, his cock moves within my grasp.

I mold his flesh, using my fingers to foreshadow the caress of my cunt, and his hips rise to meet the pumping pressure of my hand.

The wetness in my mouth mirrors that between my legs, and I move closer, rise on to my elbow. Bracing my hand against his thigh, I take his phallus between my lips.

Master and slave merge into one. Overwhelmed by his shout of surprised pleasure, the ripples of need in my cunt, I am consumed as I consume. More and more I give, yearning for his satisfaction rising like his hips rise to push his cock further into my throat.

“Ah,” he cries. “Ah!” Fingers twist into my hair, holding me in place as though he fears I will, at any moment, abandon him.

I cannot.

Trapped in lust, I want nothing more than to feel the spurt of his essence into my mouth. Feel it, taste it, know it in a way I could not if he were to sow his seed into my womb. Licking, sucking, saliva running from between my lips to drip on to my fingers, I press closer, holding his testicles in my palm as they draw tighter.

Faster he drives; faster and faster. Beyond control now, he grips my head with both hands, harsh grunts breaking from his chest. Pain stabs the back of my mouth but I do not care. The Goddess is in me, keeping my throat open, my cunt wet—keeping me alive and filled with hunger.

“Ah,” he cries again. “Ah!” But underlying the passion is repudiation and he tries to pull away.

It is too late.

I shift my hands, grasp his buttocks, feel the muscles hollow against my palms as I suck him completely into the depths of my welcoming mouth.

Silently, stiff in his release, he pours his seed into me, hips pumping, cock jerking, bottom rising and falling uncontrollably. The heat of it scalds me; the taste and sensation of his leaping flesh fill me with desire.

With a sound like a curse he pushes me away, rises to stand glaring down at me. His face is contorted, rage twisting the thin lips, reddening the skin around his nostrils.

Is the loss of control, so beautiful, so precious to me, the source of his anger? Or is it me?

Frightened, I slip from the couch on to my knees. Desperate to show my devotion I stretch my hand toward him, but he steps back.

Oh, the pain that gesture causes me. The agony of his rejection tears through my soul.

Has the Goddess rejected me, too? What have I done so displeasing to Her that She would show me this life, this man, this master, only to take it all away once more?

I seek only your pleasure, I want to tell him. To be your slave and do your bidding is everything I need—my only desire. Do not leave me in anger. Do not cast me aside before I have a chance to prove my devotion!

But we share no common language, except the carnal.

Goddess, make it enough.

When he moves away, tears come to my eyes, but my master does not leave. Instead he retrieves the rope from the corner and swiftly, with rough tugs, binds my hands. Quiescent, eyes lowered, I do not struggle, not even when he pulls me to kneel beside the narrow couch, pushes on my back until my face is pressed upon the pallet. Dragging on the rope, he ties the end to a ring on the wall, stretching my arms out and up to the point of pain. My knees can no longer touch the ground, and I scramble for purchase with my toes, digging them into the stone floor.

A sound, redolent with triumph, emanates from the depths of his chest, and for a moment I am not me, but him. I look at myself through his eyes—immobile, stretched out before him, bottom in the air, most intimately exposed—and power moves through my soul.

Oh, the sweetness of that moment—the knowledge of his true control! How my body weeps to feel it, flowering open under his regard, alive with the desperation of my passion.

As his hands pull the cheeks of my bottom apart and his cock pushes deep into my cunt, I am propelled instantly into a grinding, heart-stopping moment of ecstasy.

I go up on my toes, pushing back to meet him, rocking my hips, crying out again and again as each invasion of his phallus takes me closer and closer to the ultimate moment of communion. His hands are iron restraints on my hips, his thighs buffeting mine as he plunges to fill me. He is the sea, raging, pounding; I am the shore, unable to avoid the devastation of the waves.

He lifts my hips higher, and the next thrust of his cock almost takes me to release. A moan breaks from him; his movements become rougher, less deliberate, more desperate. I arch my back, scream as the motion increases the already unbearably glorious pressure.

My legs are trembling, close to giving way, but he will not relinquish his hold, will not stop. There is a point he must prove, to himself, to me.

I feel it coming. Like rushing wind before a storm, the blast of heat washes from my scalp to my toes, heralding the onslaught to come. I try to hold back, wanting to know my master is satisfied before I welcome it, open myself to the driving impulse. But the power of his dominance is too strong. Unable to restrict myself in either voice or motion, I scream and writhe, caught in my surrender to him and to the orgasm tearing me apart from the inside out.

In the midst of my release I hear him shout in return, feel him stiffen, fill me so completely my womb seems to open and suck him in. Rippling and pulsing in and around each other, we become elemental—the earth and sky and sea and air.

And I hear the Goddess laugh, although I do not understand why.




Chapter Two


He names me Laelia. As time passes, I learn his language a little at a time. More importantly, I begin to discover who my master, Gaius Antonius Capito, is.

Much of what I hear comes from his Greek slave, Yanos, who traveled from Rome with the master. Yanos hates Britannia. The master, he says, should return to Rome, for there much honor awaits. Look at how the other men of Verulamium, even the old ones, come to him for advice and so often bow to his superior knowledge. See the business he has built without the benefit of help from his wealthy family, with only his own wits and hands. Gaius Antonius Capito should be a senator, or a praetor, solidifying his standing with a worthy title.

It is easy to see why Yanos feels the way he does. Proud, harsh, exacting, Gaius Antonius is truly master of his house, his business, his life. No one crosses him, no one questions. If he wishes, it is done. Why has he chosen to make his fortune apart from his powerful family, in this distant outpost, instead of taking his place beside them at the heart of Rome’s power? Perhaps it is pride, I think. Or does the heart of an adventurer beat beneath the urbane exterior he shows the world?

I do all I can to prove my devotion to him, and him alone. Everything I am commanded to do is done with willing heart and hands. I go to the market to purchase his food, serve at table, wash his clothing and clean his villa. But it is in my service to him at night that I find my greatest joy, and pain.




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