You’ve got to love a good old fashioned “historical” novel featuring slavegirls of antiquity and their so-called punishments:
He ran the tip of the cane around her buttocks, circling their pert beauty before again lifting the hem of the smock, pulling it up along her well-defined spine then dropping it down over her shoulders. As it fell, covering her head, she lowered her shoulders further and raised her buttocks higher. The dark crack between them opened and from the tantalising shadow the fleshy pink of her cunt was revealed — narrow and smooth and mounded up at the sides.
Magnus ran the point of the cane along the delectable valley, prodding at her labia, testing their delicacy and, under the pressure of the cane, they opened slightly and the slit at their centre glistened with her fragrant moisture. She sighed, a muffled heavy sigh of compliance and let the side of her face rest submissively on the ground. She lay there, bent before him like a sacrifice.
Magnus lifted the cane above his head and paused. Caristia panted heavily, waiting for the cane to fall, knowing how much it would sting, how much it would burn and how much she would suffer until, finally, when he decided she had endured enough, it would end. She bit her lips and, warned by only the faintest swish of air, he brought it down fully across her waiting naked bottom.
She gasped as the stinging pain burned into her and she held her breath in an effort to stop herself from yelling too soon and as a way of bracing herself for the next. Her blue eyes widened when it fell, and she screwed up her face as the second lashing pain penetrated her but, as he raised the cane for the third time, she lifted her bottom still higher, opening the crack of her cunt and exposing her swelling flesh as much as she could for more.
He brought the cane down relentlessly but still she pushed her bottom up to meet it. No matter how hard it fell, how penetrating the pain, she still pushed herself at it, still lifted her buttocks, still exposed her cunt until she felt on fire, until she was burning with its heat. It scorched through her skin, up her neck and into her face. Then she sucked it in with gasping breaths and it entered her very soul, filling her mind with images and driving her into a reverie of uncontrollable delight. She met each stroke with increasing ecstasy and when, finally, she sensed that he would stop, she opened her buttocks wide, exposing the inner petals of her now soaking cunt and letting the stinging cane fall against its tender edges. His strokes built to a crescendo, lacing her tender flesh and, as if she had been unplugged, she felt the scream she had held in coursing up her throat. It broke free in a long penetrating screech and she collapsed, dropping fully to the floor, drenched by the flood of her own pent up, explosive orgasm, soaked by the bliss of pain.
As she panted and jerked under the shroud of her smock she felt Magnus running the tip of the cane along the red stripes that now covered her pale-skinned bottom. Her skin was so sensitised she squirmed at the slightest touch. She did not know whether he would start again, whether she had been punished enough, and she waited in case she must bear more — in case she must prepare herself for more ecstasy. But, as she heard him step back, she realised it was over and, still with her face covered, she sighed, rolled over and dropped her legs wide apart.
Magnus knelt down between them and turned to the other women.
‘And now little ones, you can see her true reward. Here! You two! Come and hold her wrists. And you two! Hold her ankles.’
From “The Roman Slave Girl” by Syra Bond.
