The Girl

This is a story I wrote for a friend some time ago. The theme is not that unusual, come to think of it. Kind of romantic but a little kinkier than in the average romantic story. A fantasy that is a little brutal but sweet as a fantasy.

I am not prepared, just yet, to disclose the literary reference I used in the last post. No cleverness in this story, though. Just some brutality. I hope you like an exotic setting. I do.

Octavius had spotted her the moment she arrived at the farm. He had been standing in the courtyard, inspecting the new slaves as they arrived. He had spotted her from a distance. He didn't know why.

At first he had pitied her and thought her only a girl. Then he found she was not a girl, just very small. No, she was a woman, no doubt about that. He thought it was her blond hair that attracted him to her but he couldn't say. She was a barbarian and had nothing of the stature and beauty of the dark women of his homeland.

But it wasn't the blond hair, it was something else, something that drew him to her. She was so small, so vulnerable but that had never attracted him to anyone before. It was something else, something he could not put his finger on.

She had no name. She was simply the girl with no name so they called her Puella. She was from the North and knew just little of the language. She hated him.

He saw her defiance, the hate in her eyes. Still he was kind to her. He put her in the kitchen which meant far lighter duties than in the field. She still seemed miserable.

Octavius was a senator, a well known citizen of Rome. He was a man of the state but he preferred the life on the farm. He returned there, to his family and his lands whenever his duties allowed him.

Now he found that he longed not only for to see his family and his lands as he left the dusty and dirty streets of the City for his beloved farm. No, he often had the image of Puella, the nameless slave on his mind as he set off.

Octavius found that he was unusually kind to the tiny Puella. He often stood and watched her as she was working. He would order some slave to help her as she carried something that seemed too heavy for her small frame. He couldn't explain what it was with that barbarian girl that made him think of her all the time.

He was attracted to her. He knew that but that was nothing unusual. Octavius was a man of principles but he was no stranger to bringing a pretty slave girl to his bed when he found the urge to touch a young body.

Puella hated him. He saw it in her eyes. Had she been a dog she would have snapped at him, buried her fangs in him. That was the kind of passion he saw in her eyes. Was it hate or did she despise him? That question troubled him. Usually he could handle hate. He just didn't care. But this was different. And if she despised him?

One evening he brought her to his chamber. He was alone, just a boy to serve him wine. Two of his farmhands brought Puella to him. It looked silly with those two sturdy men bringing her to him. One of them could have taken her on his shoulder and just dropped her off.

She knelt on the floor, head hung low, dressed only in her brief garment, a dirty sleeveless and very short dress, with a a thin cord around her waist as a belt. He didn't see her eyes but he knew the hate in them. Perhaps was there fear in them now.

She must fear him. Even if she hated him she must fear him.

Octavius knelt by her side, put his hand on her head, stroked her hair. He wanted badly to touch her, to make her happy. He didn't understand this softness, this urge to caress and care. His hand touched her cheek. It was a soft and tender touch.

She moved as if he had hit her. She threw her body backwards, slumped on the floor, hid her face in her hands, cried out in agony. 'Kill me, you coward!' she screamed.

Octavius stared at her. He was stunned, couldn't think. His head was swirling. He couldn't comprehend her reaction. He had wanted to be kind to her but she had called him a coward. He was used to insolence but this was different.

Red rage took him over. He stood up. He grabbed the girl by her arms, held her in his strong arms. She was a rag doll, sobbing but did not protest or resist. It was easy for him to tie her hands with the rope and before he knew it he had pulled it tight making Puella hang in her tied wrists, facing the pillar.

He was still mad with a fury he did not understand as he ripped the clothes from her body. He stood back, held out his hand. The slave boy gave him his whip.

Puella's pathetic cries did not diminish his assault on her soft body. His whip hit her time and again, leaving red marks on her pale northern skin.

Octavius wept as he whipped the slave girl. He wept as he saw his whip hit home and saw her body move in pain, her tiny feet leave the floor.

Later they both lay on the floor. Octavius had untied the rope and Puella lay slumped in a sobbing heap at the pillar. Octavius had thrown away the whip with disgust and was reclining on some cushions.

His head was in turmoil. He stared out into nothing. He was so lost to the world that he did not notice the tiny movements in Puella's body. He did not hear how she crawled across the floor and now lay at his feet.

He heard her breath the moment before she touched his feet. Instead of moving he froze. He waited for the attack. This proud little woman would doubtlessly try to kill him for his cruelty, knowing that she would perish doing it.

He wasn't prepared for the kiss, the soft kiss she placed on his feet. He stared at her as she gently kissed him again. In amazement he regarded her naked body, marked by his whip slowly move as she placed one sweet kiss after another on his feet.

He looked at her and after an eternity she turned her red and wet face towards him. He stared at her as she looked at him. This time he didn't see the hate.